


Ain't Snow Rest for the Wicked

by Puke_Silver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Azor Ahai, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Development, Character Growth, Cunnilingus, Dragons, Edgeplay, Erotica, Essos, Existential Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Light Bondage, Prophecy, R plus L equals J, Rape, Resurrection, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Dysfunction, Smut, Strong Female Characters, Swearing, The Night's Watch, Unplanned Pregnancy, Warging, Westeros, Wildlings - Freeform, Winterfell, character exploration, the wall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 65
Words: 146,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puke_Silver/pseuds/Puke_Silver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I never had a chance, did I?” Jon smiled warmly. “It was always going to be like this—you and me.”</em>
</p><p>Jon Snow stays by Ygritte’s side and the two of them set out for Winterfell together. But winter is coming, and deserter crow or not, Jon must do what he can to protect the realms of men. Lives are lost, prophecies are fulfilled, and <em>the man is born</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction is written almost exclusively from Jon’s and Ygritte’s perspectives and is focused heavily on dialogue and character exploration as essential to the plot's development. 
> 
> *includes a fair bit of smut and silliness sprinkled amidst all the tragedy and chaos
> 
> Obvious Copyright/intellectual property props to GRRM/D. Benioff/D. B. Weiss. In some cases throughout this fic, specific quotes have been directly lifted from both the books and the show, for which I do not deserve any credit whatsoever.
> 
> Might freak out/have an existential crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** Graphic descriptions of violence.

****

**Sansa:**

****

The smell of blood lingered in the air, coppery and sweet—the cold stones radiating an overwhelmingly icy dampness. Sansa never liked the dungeons.

Suddenly, an image of Theon flashed through her mind.

_No, not of Theon; of the toothless, broken creature he had become._

She shut her eyes and ran a hand across her forehead, swallowing deeply to suppress the horrible memory and sweating despite the chill. These walls were stained with such sorrow. But, Winterfell was still her home.

“Are you alright, m’lady?” asked a nearby guard nervously.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she answered reservedly, before gesturing to the cells across the room. “I’ve come to talk to the wildlings. I’d like word from north of The Wall.”

“You heard the lady. Get up,” a second guard growled, sticking his foot through the bars and delivering a sharp kick to the leg of the woman sitting on the floor.

For the first time since entering the room, Sansa looked towards the cell. The female prisoner raised her head, her mouth set thinly in defiance—eyes flaring underneath tendrils of hair just as red as Sansa’s. But the woman's sneer flickered briefly to a grimace as she pulled herself up, hands clutching her side in pain.

A second prisoner, a man, lay in the corner seemingly unconscious. His back was facing Sansa, pieces of straw sticking out from a mass of unruly black hair.

Sansa's eyes travelled to the ground beneath him, and dragging her gaze across the puddles and grime, she noticed a patch of (what appeared to be) vomit near the cell’s door. Sansa took a step back, her stomach churning as she composed herself once more. “What are you doing south of The Wall?” she asked cooly then, her eyes returning to meet the prisoner's glare.

“I’m a free woman—free to go where I please,” spat the wildling.

“You are a prisoner of Winterfell and as such, you will answer my questions." Sansa's voice was steady as she repeated herself, her patience icy and commanding. "What is a wildling doing south of the Wall? Are the wildlings on the move?”

“D'ya think if I knew, I'd tell ya?”

Without a word, a guard thrust the butt of his spear into the wildling’s ribcage. She doubled over, letting out a gravelly whimper as she fell hard against the stone ground.

Sansa's face hardened. “Enough.”

“I’m sorry m’lady. She’s been tough—still not told us anything,” explained the guard in irritated desperation. “…O’ course, if you’d allow us to use more forceful methods, I’m sure we could get the answers you’re looking for.”

Sansa gritted her teeth and stared hard at her man. “If you’re implying that we torture our prisoners, I won't allow it. I am _not_ Roose Bolton.” Sansa said firmly before huffing a quick breath in an attempt to collect herself. She waved her hand dismissively. “Leave her be, _for now_. I’d like to speak to the man.”

“Right.” The guard walked around to the opposite side of the cell. “Come on, boy,” he grunted, reaching through the bars and grabbing the back of the man’s tunic. With a forceful tug, the prisoner was rolled onto his back. Despite a brief flutter of his eyelids, he remained unstirred. His dark hair was plastered to his face in a mixture of blood and sweat, masking his features.

“We found him with the girl ‘bout 15 leagues from here,” the guard grunted as he lifted a bucket of water and gestured towards the wounded man. “He won’t say much either.”

“How long has he been unconscious?” Sansa asked grimly.

“Well… We… Err… We had some troubles with him,” the guard said slightly hesitantly. “He put up a bit of a fight and things got a little rough... The water should wake him though,” he added quickly.

With that, the guard swung the contents of the bucket onto the man’s prone body.

“Seven hells!” the prisoner screamed hoarsely as he bolted into a sitting position, coughing several times before using the back of his hand to wipe the hair from his eyes. With an uncomfortable scowl, he delicately lifted the fabric of his breeches to dump the pool of dirty water which had collected in his lap.

He took a resigned breath then, just before lifting his head to regard his captors. And meeting Sansa’s stare, the prisoner cocked his head as his eyebrows knitted above brown eyes clouded with dawning recognition.

“Sansa?” he practically choked out, quickly standing up in bewildered joy, an unmistakable flash of pain crossing his face as he did so.

“Jon?” Sansa whispered in disbelief, her face softening. “What are you doing here? Guards, let him out." Her voice grew bolder. "Gods, Jon, your face—what did you do to him?” Sansa asked, wheeling to face the guard. “Let him out” she repeated sternly.

“M’lady, we—he—“

“He’s my brother!” Sansa shouted fiercely, noting how the wildling woman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Release him _now_.”

The guard fumbled deftly with a set of iron keys, mumbling a weak apology as he shoved the correct key into the lock.

“Ygritte comes with me” Jon said, still looking shocked as he offered a hand to the woman on the ground before pulling her upright.

“Of course,” replied Sansa, equally as stunned. “I’ll have some chambers readied—guard, fetch the Maester—Jon, are you hurt?”

“Well, they gave his balls a right good bruisin’… And they beat up that pretty face he’s got” Ygritte answered boldly, placing a hand concernedly (though rather roughly) on Jon’s shoulder.

“I’m alright,” he said, moving a hand to gingerly cup his groin as though he had just remembered his pain, “but, I think Ygritte’s got a broken rib or two…” He paused. “Sansa..." he breathed quickly, his voice hitching. “Robb? Arya? Bran and—”

_Gods, he doesn’t know._

Heart in her throat, Sansa's face paled, her skin cold and stricken. “—No, Jon... It’s just me here.” She watched as Jon’s face fell in disappointment. “Can you both walk?”

“Yes,” Jon answered before looking questioningly at Ygritte. She gave a curt nod and Jon wrapped his free hand around Ygritte’s waist as she strengthened her grip on his shoulder.

“Good. Follow me,” Sansa said, turning swiftly to leave the dungeons, her mind not quite caught up to reality.

_Could this really be happening?_

***

**Ygritte (the day prior—early morning):**

The sun had just peeked above the skyline, pink shafts of light perforating the dense forest. Ygritte pulled herself away from a still sleeping Jon and stretched her thin arms out, yawning loudly as she arched her back into the stretch.

She knelt down next him, her eyes tracing down the ragged claw marks on his face as she reflected on the events of the last couple of moons. Her stomach sank remembering Jon’s near betrayal, remembering both their eyes brimming with tears as he had stood there, his back facing the pond, remembering her bow arm stretched out and ready to release, and then remembering Jon asking her to come with him—to seek his family—to go home.

They were both turncloaks now—Jon no longer acting as a man of the Night’s Watch and Ygritte south of The Wall, miles away from everybody she had ever known.

But that was their decision, and lowering her bow, Ygritte had left with Jon. They belonged to each other.

_"All that matters is you and me—I know I love you and I know you love me.”_

The memory of Jon’s words—of their pained love—caused Ygritte’s cheeks to burn warmly. She bent over and planted a rough kiss on his mouth. Jon’s eyes fluttered and his face cracked into a grin as he stared up at her; sleep still lingering in his foggy eyes.

“Hello,” he said, his voice groggy.

Ygritte smiled back devilishly, pushing aside the complex and emotional memories she had been focused on just a few moments prior. Thinking quickly, she grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it into his face before breaking into a sprint. Jon let out a muffled grunt as he wiped the snow from his eyes and pushed himself up to a standing position. By this time, Ygritte had moved behind a nearby tree, already forming another snowball with her numbing hands.

“Good mornin'!” she shouted teasingly, her cheeks flushed with the cold as she leaned out from the tree’s cover to throw the snowball in his direction. Jon dodged it rather effectively, a crooked smile on his wet face, and he bent down to gather some snow for himself.

She ran from her hiding spot and dashed to another tree as Jon’s snowball collided with the side of her face. Ygritte stumbled for a moment, allowing Jon the opportunity to catch and tackle her. They both hit the ground with a thud. Jon quickly sat on her hips, his knees on either side of her as he bent over and pinned her arms to the ground with his hands.

“Got you,” he said amusedly, his dark curls falling into his face.

Ygritte scoffed. Annoyed at her defeat, she looked up into his eyes. “Your nose is all pink, Jon Snow. Looking at ya now, I’d not ‘ave guessed you was a northern lad,” she laughed, shifting under his weight. “You look like a proper southerner all freezin’ and bothered by a bit of ice.”

“Well, _I am_ from the north,” he replied with a joking firmness. “But I don’t usually wake up to a face full of snow… And for someone usually so _good_ at escaping from me, I caught you pretty quick just now” he finished, mussing up her hair.

Remembering the circumstances of their first few days together made Ygritte smile before grabbing his face and pulling him into a kiss. The warmth brought color and feeling to her frozen lips. It seemed so long ago that she was his prisoner.

“Aye, you’re gettin’ better,” she breathed, breaking the kiss.

“At kissing you or at stopping you from escaping?” he laughed.

“Both,” she answered, a gleam in her eyes.

Jon smiled and sighed contently. “We should get moving. It looks like—“His voice caught in his throat before finishing his thought as Ygritte began grinding her hips against his crotch. She thrust upwards, feeling him harden in response to her movement. After a few more seconds of friction, Jon bent down to meet her lips. But before he could reach them, Ygritte flipped over, effectively pushing Jon off. She stood up quickly.

Ygritte grinned down at his confused expression. “We should get moving,” she said deeply in a clearly mocking imitation of his earlier words. Giggling at his obvious disappointment and irritation, she held out a hand to help him up.

“I liked the way we were moving,” Jon said rather grudgingly. He rolled his eyes before grabbing her hand and hauling himself to his feet; huffing as he adjusted himself in an attempt to relieve the tension which had built up between his legs.

Ygritte enjoyed teasing him, and she couldn’t help it that he made it so easy. “It’s not like you crows aren’t used to your stones all achin’ in frustration. We’ll _move_ proper later, Jon Snow,” she said with a wink. “In the meantime, we’d best make tracks. It does look like a storm.” With that, she spun around and began trudging forward in the snow.

Jon closed his eyes and exhaled deeply before following her through the trees.

***

**Jon (the day prior—morning): ******

They walked in a comfortable silence (as they so often did) for about an hour before Jon turned to her and spoke. “We’re getting closer.”

“Are we sure we want to be getting’ much closer?” she asked. “We don’t know what’s happened anywhere since you left The Wall.”

“Aye, that’s true,” he nodded glumly, for last he'd heard, his sisters were still in King’s Landing following his father’s death; Robb marching south and Bran acting Lord of Winterfell.

Ygritte hesitated before speaking—an unusual act for her. She then said quietly, “Jon, if the last you heard, Ned Stark ‘ad lost his head… And that was a couple ‘o moons ago... We really don’t know what’s waiting for us at your castle… We should be careful.”

“It’s not my castle,” Jon said almost reflexively. He then looked to her, his eyes swimming in sorrowful thought. “And we’ve got to at least see. We’ll be careful—stay hidden—but Ygritte… Even if Winterfell isn’t my castle, it’s still my home. I’ve— _we've_ nowhere else to go.”

He had abandoned The Watch, an act punishable by death, to find his family—to return home. No longer a man of The Night’s Watch, no longer a Free Folk, and never a true Stark, Jon was Ygritte’s, and that was proving to be more and more important. He’d almost made the mistake of abandoning her once before—a mistake he wouldn’t soon make again.

But even by Ygritte’s side, Jon felt a duty to join Robb’s fight, to bring justice for his father’s death, and to find safety for his younger sisters and brothers.

True Stark or not, his love for his siblings trumped honor; as did his love for Ygritte. Jon wondered what his father would think of him now. Honor wasn’t as clear-cut as it had once seemed, and the ‘right thing to do’ was certainly never presented obviously. Whether there was more honor in rigidly upholding duty or in protecting loved ones, Jon had yet to sort out… But his actions over the past few months had seemed to place him firmly in one camp. 

_It’s too late to turn back now. We must keep going forward._

She nodded.

“I’m not naïve,” he continued. “I know that war changes everything … But Winterfell is the place I’ve got to start… I’ve got no other ideas.” He hung his head, his voice cracking.

“I know. We’ll find them though—we’ll find your family,” she tried unconvincingly to reassure him.

Jon smiled sadly and reached out to hold her hand. “I hope so.”

They walked a few more steps in silence. “And you’ll always ‘ave me… I’m yours, Jon Snow,” she said with uncharacteristic tenderness, turning her head towards him. Jon gave her hand a gentle squeeze in response, his sad smile softening lovingly as his grip tightened.

***

**Ygritte (the day prior—morning):**

Ygritte’s head snapped around abruptly. “Did you hear that?” she hissed, pulling Jon to a stop. “It sounds like horses.”

“No, I—“ Jon stiffened, hearing the unmistakable sound of horse hooves and quickly changing his tune. “Ygritte, we have to move,” he said with urgency, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

Ygritte pulled an arrow from her quiver and positioned it in her bow before racing after Jon. She jumped over twisted roots, breathing heavily from a combination of exercise and adrenaline.

Suddenly, she saw a flash from her peripheries and raised her bow towards the movement.

“Stop!” a gruff voice yelled from behind.

Jon whipped around to Ygritte, drawing his sword and placing his back against hers as six horses and riders closed in around them. The riders sported armor but no notable sigils.

“In the name of The Queen, I order you to drop your weapons,” a heavy bearded man said authoritatively.

“We don’t serve no—“ Ygritte began before Jon cut her off.

“Queen Cersei?” Jon demanded sharply.

“Queen Cersei?" The man bellowed a laugh and shook his head with amused dismissal. "Drop your weapons and come peacefully, wildling—this is the last time I’ll ask,” he said severely.

Jon raised his sword defiantly, and the bearded man’s face hardened in response. “Right. Round ‘em up, boys” he commanded. However, before the guards could even dismount, Ygritte swiftly shot an arrow into the clavicle of the man nearest her. He dropped from his horse with a loud cry. Behind her, Jon advanced towards the bearded man, his jaw set in determination.

Ygritte turned to the man approaching from her left and pulled out a second arrow. But before she could get a shot lined up, the man punched a heavy fist into her cheekbone, sending her reeling back a few steps. Ygritte clutched her face, growling angrily. Without time to recover from the blow, the man rushed her, grabbing her by the hair and swinging her harshly to the ground.

She shouted hoarsely and lying on her back, sent a strong kick into the advancing man’s kneecap, taking grim satisfaction from watching him stumble backwards in the snow.

Before Ygritte could push herself up to face the man again, she received another heavy blow, this time to the back of her head, causing her to fall face first into the snow. The guard she had hit with the arrow had come from behind. He suddenly towered over her and began to deliver a barrage of hard kicks to her ribcage. She heard a crack and spots of light danced across her vision as pain racked her body. After a time, the blows stopped and she felt her hands being tied with coarse rope.

A guard hauled Ygritte up and she saw Jon a few yards away, lying on the ground coughing—his hands holding his crotch and his face paled and bloodied. Jon was yanked to a standing position and Ygritte noticed a small, but open wound on his side as his hands were pulled forward to be tied.

Fear flashed through Ygritte’s mind—Jon couldn’t reveal who he really was. There was no telling what la-dee-da house the guards served, and until she and Jon knew more, they couldn’t afford to take any chances.

“Jon, don’t say nothin’!” she shouted desperately.

Jon gave a sickly and sincere nod in her direction. Despite his pain, Ygritte was touched by the obvious concern he held for her in his eyes.

“We can’t—“But before she could say more, Ygritte was cut off by a sharp slap to her face.

“Shut your hole, bitch!” ordered the offending guard, his eyes cold and angry.

“Leave her alone!” Jon yelled, his voice scratched with emotion.

The bearded man gave Jon a rough shove towards the guard to his right, who promptly lifted Jon on top of his horse with little delicacy or care. The man followed suit and settled himself behind Jon in the saddle, pushing Jon roughly forward to make more room for himself. Ygritte watched Jon’s eyes shut tightly in discomfort before she was hauled on top of another mount by the guard who had slapped her. She angrily tried to shrug his grip off.

The other four men climbed onto their horses and the party set off towards the south in a flurry of horse hooves, leaving bloody patches of disturbed snow behind them.

***

**Jon (the day prior—early afternoon):**

He felt he was going to be sick. Every bounce on the saddle sent a new wave of nausea up from his core to his throat—the gash in his side deep and smarting. They’d been riding for a few hours and the pain was becoming more and more unbearable. Jon looked towards Ygritte, noting the dark bruise forming under her eye. His expression darkened as he realized how low the rider’s hands were on Ygritte’s waist—she’d stopped struggling awhile ago.

Jon wondered if he had made a mistake in heading south with Ygritte. He’d blindly led them into the arms of captors serving an unknown queen. If they were lucky, the men would be loyal to The Starks. In the meantime, continuing to pose as a wildling seemed to be the best option—acting as a crow would surely get his head chopped off even quicker, and there was no telling how revealing his true name would be received.

_The Bastard of Winterfell._

The wind howled and the snowfall had picked up. Jon took a deep breath trying in vain to shift himself into a more comfortable position. The movement made him realize that the pressure in his lower body wasn’t entirely due to pain.

“I have to piss,” Jon said bitterly, breaking the silence with his growling pout.

The guard rolled his eyes in irritation and shouted ahead: “Oi! Stop—this one’s got to piss.”

“Tell him to hold it!” the bearded man yelled back, his voice carried by the heavy winds.

“You’re not the one sitting with him, Henry!” Jon’s guard shouted forth. “I’m not having him piss his breeches while we share a saddle. I’m stopping!”

The horse came to a halt and Jon was pushed off its back. He stumbled, falling to his knees as his feet hit the ground. Jon got up and walked about ten paces—as far away as the rope tied to him would comfortably allow—before fumbling with his laces.

Humiliated and exhausted, he grunted in frustration over the difficult maneuvering required to unlace his breeches while his wrists were still bound together. But after what seemed like a very long time to Jon, he let out a sigh of relief, finally managing to accomplish the task.

“Hurry up, boy!” the bearded man—Henry—yelled.

Jon clenched his jaw and pulled out his cock, wincing as a sudden gust of icy wind passed over his exposed flesh, before letting loose.

Looking down, he watched the snow turn yellow, melting under the heat of his piss.

“Alright, you’ve had more than enough time!” Jon’s guard shouted all-too-soon, suddenly yanking the rope around Jon’s wrists. Jon let out a surprised cry as his hands were jerked abruptly to his left, his penis jerking sharply along with them. His stream crossed over his leg then, leaving several spots of acidic warmth spreading across the fabric of his breeches.

“I hadn't finished!” Jon yelled, whirling around in a mixture of rage and embarrassment as he tried to stuff himself quickly back inside his smallclothes.

“Well you have now,” Henry yelled, looking down from his mount as Jon trudged angrily back to the horses. “Look, Radford,” he laughed, pointing at Jon’s wet leg. “The greenboy's pissed himself!”

Fists clenching, Jon swallowed his fury, struggling to maintain what little, seething composure he had left. He shut his eyes and sighed heavily. His laces had been poorly and loosely tied in his haste, causing his breeches to sag uncomfortably, and it crossed his mind then, that were they not in such a dire situation, Ygritte would have found this funny. He spared her a glance, for which she shot him an apologetic look. Though, Jon swore he saw a glint of amusement in her eyes, causing him to let out a small (albeit somewhat bitter) laugh—no matter the situation, Ygritte was one of the few people in the Seven Kingdoms who could get Jon to smile, let alone to laugh.

His guard—Radford—then set Jon roughly on the horse before also seating himself in the saddle. “No more piss breaks, boy,” he grumbled. “We’re to be at Winterfell by nightfall.”

_He might be a prisoner covered in piss and bruises, but at least he was heading home._

***

**Jon (the day prior—nightfall):**

The ruined castle loomed ominously over Jon in the darkness. In the flickering torchlight, he could see scorch marks and rubble in every direction. Jon’s stomach dropped and he felt his eyes begin to prickle with tears. This wasn’t the Winterfell he had left behind.

_What happened here? Where was Bran—his family? And how had he thought bringing Ygritte here—putting her in danger—was a good idea? How could he have been so foolish?_

A hundred fears and regrets raced through Jon’s mind as he and Ygritte were led to the dungeons. She walked ahead of him, her red hair reflecting the movement of the candlelight’s flames. They entered a small room. The stones were damp and covered in patches of molding straw. Thick iron bars formed a medium–sized cell on the back wall.

The guard named Henry turned to Jon and Ygritte. “You’ll want to strip off those wet furs,” he said. Jon looked down at his own wilding clothing and realized just how much ice and muck clung to him.

“Well, you’ll ‘ave to untie our hands first,” Ygritte said, lifting up her eyebrows confrontationally.

“Alright, but any funny business and I’ll not hesitate to kill either one of you,” Henry replied, his eyes darting back and forth between Jon and Ygritte.

Jon’s guard, Radford, untied his hands while Henry freed Ygritte’s. The other four guards had already disappeared from the room.

Jon pulled his heavy coat off over his head, building up static and resulting in his hair simultaneously sticking up and clinging to his face. Jon shook his hair from his eyes and yanked off his muddied boots, throwing them roughly to the floor before shedding the rest of his clothes, until he stood there wearing only a thin tunic and breeches. Ygritte was now in a similar state of undress.

“Who would have thought you were hiding those lovely curves under all those clothes?” Henry said slimily, causing an unmistakable flash of fury to cross Ygritte’s face, her jaw clenching tightly. Jon scowled and noticed Ygritte’s hands balled into fists by her side.

_Gods, Ygritte, please don’t do anything stupid._

Jon blanched then, watching as Henry shoved Ygritte into the cell. She hissed in pain; hands clinging to her ribs. And it was with measured difficulty, that she turned to Henry to spit a thick wad of saliva onto his boots.

_Seven hells._

The man wasted no time before delivering a strong backhanded slap, pulling a sharp cry from Ygritte as she fell to her knees; the sound of the blow reverberating loudly off the stone walls of the chamber.

And then, before he could stop himself, Jon ran forward, crashing into Henry with all of his force. He landed a few good punches, splitting Henry’s lip, before Radford grabbed Jon around the waist and pulled him off. Jon yelped gruffly as the man’s fingers dug into the wound on his side, wriggling forcefully in an unsuccessful attempt to free himself from Radford’s grip.

Radford slammed Jon against the wall in response, snapping his neck with the force of momentum and causing the back of Jon's head to knock harshly against the stones. His vision blurred for a moment and Jon reflexively pushed out his hands, catching hold of Radford’s jaw and digging the blunt of his nails into the porous, red skin—drawing blood. But the guard soon broke free and before Jon could make another move, Radford rammed his knee forcefully into Jon’s groin.

_The second time today!_

It took a moment for Jon to register the pain before falling to the stone floor, cradling his injured genitals. His eyes rolled back into his head and he let out a low, staggered grunt, feeling as though a lead ball of solid pain had settled in his lower abdomen. Jon squirmed on the ground in desperation—even to find relief for just one second would be worth it. He could smell the damp straw spread out across the stones and began to notice the taste of blood, realizing he had been biting his own lip.

Head swimming, Jon tried to push himself upwards, but was kicked onto his back by Henry who subsequently placed a foot on Jon’s sternum, pressing down heavily. On the edges of his awareness, Jon could hear Ygritte yelling, but couldn’t quite make out her words.

Jon coughed under the weight of the guard’s boot. He was having trouble breathing.

“What’s that, boy?" the man sneered, spit flying from his mouth. He pressed down harder and Jon noticed that Henry’s black beard was smeared with blood from his cut lip.

And then, in one last-ditch effort at freeing himself, Jon kicked his leg out, catching Henry behind the knee. Much to his relief, the pressure on Jon’s chest immediately let up and he quickly wormed his way out from underneath Henry’s boot.

Rage flared in Henry’s eyes and Jon scrambled, trying in vain to move out of reach. But Henry was too fast.

The guard growled as he bent down and picked Jon up by the front of his tunic, closing one large hand around Jon’s neck and slamming him into the stone wall yet again.

Hoisted as such—his feet barely scraping the ground—Jon struggled against Henry’s hold, his windpipe crushed painfully under the man’s firm grasp. But his struggles proved futile, for just then, keeping Jon’s neck pinned to the wall with one hand, Henry roughly removed his other hand from the collar of Jon’s tunic and reached down, grabbing Jon’s balls with a tight fist.

Jon whimpered as his breath hitched, his testicles aching unbearably. He could feel the bile rising in his throat as Henry squeezed tighter, sending tears rolling down Jon’s face. The pain was blinding—his vision spotty—and when the time came, Jon hardly even registered being thrown to the ground.

Hitting the stones, he immediately rolled over, retching loudly. And then, summoning the last of his strength, Jon began to crawl desperately towards the cell's doorframe—towards Ygritte—where he promptly and exhaustedly collapsed.

_Gods, his balls._

Jon felt one last kick to the side of his face then, causing his head to ricochet off one of the iron bars and sending him plunging into darkness.

***

**Ygritte (a few hours prior to Sansa’s arrival in the dungeons):**

“Stop!” Ygritte shouted at the guards, her voice slightly more angry than it was pleading, as she reached for Jon. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull his unconscious form closer towards her.

Henry bent down, his hand extended towards Jon. But before he could make contact, Ygritte quickly tugged Jon closer towards her. “Don’t touch him!” she snarled, clinging Jon’s head against her chest.

The guard slammed the cell door shut with a harsh metallic clang. “Don’t say another word, wildling whore,” he spat before turning to face the other guard. “Radford, you’re to stay watch. I’ll be back in the morning.” With that, the man stalked out of the room, wiping a calloused hand through his bloody beard as his footsteps retreated through the stone corridor.

Radford walked to the far end of the room, sitting down and leaning his back against the cold wall. “Don’t try anything,” he said, meeting Ygritte’s eyes and pulling out his sword to sharpen.

Ygritte swallowed her anger and looked down at Jon’s face. His lip was split and old scars had been reopened. She ran her fingers through his curly hair and saw a large gash on his temple—his hair matted with blood and vomit.

Ygritte ripped a patch of fabric off the bottom of her tunic and began blotting the cuts on his face. When she had finished, she smoothed his hair down lovingly and laid him gently on his side in the corner of the cell.

_He had been stupid to rush the guard—brave—but stupid._

His heartbeat pulsed faintly in his neck, comforting Ygritte only slightly.

Her ribs throbbed fiercely and she could feel her bruised face swelling dramatically. Ygritte put a hand on Jon’s leg as she scooted her back against the stones behind her. She rubbed her fingers delicately along Jon’s shin and closed her eyes.

_He was still breathing. He’d wake up._

Ygritte took a few deep breaths and drifted into a fitful slumber.


	2. II

**Ygritte (present):**

“Yes, it hurts,” Ygritte hissed through clenched teeth as the handmaiden pressed her cool fingers around Ygritte’s ribcage. “It’s a cracked rib—o' course it hurts,” she continued, pushing the girl’s hand away and arching her slender neck backwards, so as to stare at the high ceiling of the chamber. The girl backed away sheepishly, dropping Ygritte’s tunic as she did so.

Jon, meanwhile, was lying on a cot a few paces away as the maester applyed a salve to his side wound—the most grievous of his visible injuries—while Jon sipped from a skin of wine with an air of necessity.

_Gods, they had been lucky Jon’s sister had found them… Though it would ‘ave done him better to stay knocked out for this._

“You’ll need to wrap those ribs, m’lady,” the maester said, turning his head from Jon towards Ygritte. “Eva can help you with the cloth.”

She let out a surprised laugh. “I’m not a lady, and I can do it meself, thanks. It’s nothing I’ve not ‘ad before… Keep helping him,” she said, pointing at Jon. “He got the worst o’ it.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, m’la—" The maester cleared his throat, as though to cover his reflexive misuse of the title. "He’ll require a fair amount of stitching. He will be alright though,” the old man finished, turning his attention again to Jon’s side, “in time.”

Ygritte reached her hand out then, and grabbed the handful of cloths that the girl had brought over. Without a trace of modesty, she pulled her shirt over her head, sending a fresh bolt of pain to her side, and goosebumps pimpling across the bare of her skin. Then, with a harsh snarl, Ygritte began to wrap the material around her torso, compressing the area just underneath her breast.

When she had finished, Ygritte redressed and pushed herself up from the wooden bench, walking over towards Jon, whose eyes were slightly glazed over—though from the wine or the pain, Ygritte could not say.

“Hello,” he slurred, smiling weakly and grabbing her hand.

“Don’t talk, ya fool. Stay quiet,” she said, placing a hand on his bare shoulder. “Is there anything I can do to ‘elp?” she asked the maester.

“Take this,” he said, handing her a wooden bowl of oily paste. “Rub it on the cuts.” And so Ygritte did as she was bid, rubbing the salve along the gash on his forehead and again around the open bruise blooming across his cheekbone.

“Alright, now Jon, I’m going to begin the stitches. Take another sip, boy—good—are you ready?”

“Mhmm” Jon grumbled, nodding with a mixture of reluctance and pain. “Do it.”

Jon growled in misery as the needle worked its way through his flesh; Ygritte watching his body tense up, his toes curling as he squeezed her hand harder.

_Gods, he really don't like needles._

“It’s alright,” she cooed, using her free hand to cradle the side of his face, rubbing her thumb along his jawline. “You’re a strong man o’ the north, Jon Snow.”

Jon exhaled shakily as the final stitch was made and the thread cut. He let out a relieved laugh then and looked up towards Ygritte, whose eyes were scanning his body.

“And wha’ about your stones? Have you looked at ‘em yet?” she asked. “Has he looked at ‘em?” She nodded her head towards the maester.

Jon flushed. “Er… No.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ygritte saw the handmaiden leave the room. She then let out an exasperated huff then, and reached towards Jon’s laces before he shot his hand out, grabbing hold of her wrist. “Don’t.”

“Don’t they hurt?” Ygritte asked caustically.

Jon nodded his head quickly and ran his tongue across his front teeth, his free hand finding its way to rest in-between his legs. “Yes.”

“Do you want to lose ‘em?”

Jon winced and knitted his eyebrows in anxious concern. “No,” he spat moodily.

“Right—well it ain’t nothing me or him not seen before,” Ygritte said, jerking a thumb at the maester who simply shrugged in response.

“It’s best I have a look, Jon.”

With a deep sigh, Jon nodded resignedly and untied his laces before pulling his breeches down a ways.

The sight was alarming, and Ygritte sucked in a breath as she took in the state of his bruised and purpled balls. “Gods, Jon.”

Jon’s mouth was slightly agape as he looked down. “Seven hells… Will they… Will it all work again?” Jon asked the maester, obvious panic rising in his voice.

The maester’s expression didn’t quite mask his shock or sympathy, but he answered calmly nonetheless. “Let’s get some ice on it before we make any judgments—" The maester dipped his hand between Jon's legs then, prompting a hiss, which quickly devolved into a few strangled grunts and whimpers as the maester began to gently lift and pull Jon's sac in all directions.

When the maester's examination was finished, he stepped back before speaking. "No doubt, you will be pleased to hear that it won't require stitching. It looks worse than it is," he said assuringly. "Though it may take awhile for the swelling to go down. Are you able to make water?” he asked.

Face flushed with shaky relief, Jon answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

“Well, do try as soon as you are—there may be some pain with it… I’ll fetch some ice. You may get dressed now.”

Ygritte watched Jon pull his breeches back up, not bothering to lace them, as the maester left the chambers.

“You shouldn’t ‘ave charged that guard,” she said.

“You shouldn’t have spit on his boots,” he retorted, a grimaced grin crossing his face.

Ygritte rolled her eyes and grunted in amusement. “You men are such babies.”

Jon sucked in his cheeks and nodded with a resigned smile. Ygritte passed him the wine skin. “Here, keep drinking. It’ll numb the pain and make you piss.”

She looked to his stitches and shook her head back and forth angrily. “I’ll gut that guard.”

“I don’t need you to do anything for me,” Jon said sullenly. “Are you alright?” he asked in a softer tone.

“Aye. I’ll be fine... But I’ll be better if you can still get your cock up.”

“Me too,” Jon answered dryly.

Ygritte ran her fingers through Jon’s hair. “Is it strange to be home?”

“Yes. Winterfell isn’t the same without all the Starks… I need to speak with Sansa.”

***

**Jon:**

Jon sat with Ygritte on the bed in his old chambers. The mattress was firm and the furs scratchy. He could feel his fresh stitches stretch with every inhale. Ygritte sat with her legs crisscrossed while Jon’s legs hung loosely off the bed; his hand resting on her knee. The wrapped ice was beginning to melt in Jon’s lap and he sourly threw the damp bundle to the floor where it landed with a loud splat.

“It was too cold,” he mumbled, catching Ygritte’s side-eyed grin. “And too wet.”

“You’re a grim lad, Jon Snow,” Ygritte laughed. “And you’re still sure ya don’t want me to go after that guard?” Ygritte teased before leaning over and kissing him lightly on the cheek.

One corner of Jon’s mouth tugged upwards in a weak smile.

***

**Sansa:**

Sansa knocked and opened the heavy wooden door to Jon’s chambers. “Jon?”

Jon made to stand up from the bed. “—Don't,” she said softly, holding her hand out as if to stop him. “I’ve brought fresh ice and bandages… The maester said you may be needing them,” Sansa finished, noticing the piece of cloth lying on the floor in a dark pool of water.

“Thank you,” Jon said, taking the bundle from Sansa and placing it in between his legs, gently lifting himself onto the ice with a grunt. She averted her eyes in modesty, though she noted that the wildling woman had clearly felt no such embarrassment.

“Sansa… What’s happened?” he asked softly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously—unmistakable dread etched onto his face.

_Gone. They were all gone._

“Jon…” Sansa’s voice caught and she swallowed hard, her eyes already beginning to well with tears.

_What could she say?_

Jon’s lower lip trembled and his face paled, almost as though he knew what was about to come. “I know about father,” he said quickly. “If that’s—“

“—it’s not just father, Jon… Robb… Robb and my mother too.”

“Dead?” Jon croaked. And Sansa nodded, tears beginning to fall from her lashes before rolling down her flushed cheeks.

Jon shut his eyes in agony and hung his head, like a man collapsing in on himself. And then, as though a dam broke, he began to weep. The outward show of his despondency momentarily startled Sansa, who merely watched as the wildling woman quickly put her arms around his shaking shoulders. For, even growing up together, it was rare a time when she would see Jon shed a tear. And now, all these years later, the rawness of his current emotion only further spurred Sansa's own relived grief.

For a time, only the muffled sounds of crying filled the chamber.

“Arya…? Bran and Rickon?” Jon sniffled after a minute, lifting his head up slightly—his red-rimmed eyes only partially visible behind dark strands of hair. His voice was flat with fear—fear at what else Sansa might tell him.

“Nobody has seen Arya since father’s death... She may still be alive.”

Eyes shut, Jon nodded in restrained relief, before taking a long exhale and looking up again at Sansa. “How did—Robb?”

“I can’t—“

“Please, Sansa. I have to know,” Jon begged sadly.

Sansa shook her head, unsure of how to continue.

_She'd been strong for so long._

“He… He was betrayed by the Freys and the Boltons… At a wedding." Sansa could barely choke out the words. "Jon, he was killed... And his wife Talisa...” she sputtered, fresh tears wracking through her body. "Jon, she was pregnant."

_Saying it out loud made it real._

“And my mother—they were all betrayed—murdered.”

The wildling woman—Ygritte—gripped Jon’s arms tightly, her jaw clenched as tears continued to fall silently down Jon’s face; his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths in contrast to the stillness of his expression's grieving stoicism. He closed his eyes once more then, and turned his head into Ygritte’s shoulder, as though the further he pushed into her, the further he could escape from the despair.

“What about Bran and Rickon? Sansa—Gods—“ Jon asked after awhile—his voice cracking in emotion.

“I don’t know, Jon—they’re missing. For a long time, I thought them dead too. When Theon sacked Winterfell—“

“When Theon did _what?_ ” Jon cried, tearing himself from Ygritte and standing up suddenly. “ _Theon_ sacked Winterfell?” Jon asked, emphasizing Theon’s name in disbelief.

_Gods. He didn’t know anything. How could he not know? Where had he been?_

“He did… But he was captured by the Boltons… And then again by my men when we took Winterfell just a few fortnights ago.”

Jon sat back down, stunned.

“I spoke with him, Jon…" she exhaled quietly. "He'd told everyone that he'd killed the boys. But it wasn't true, he said—that instead he’d burned a farmer’s children’s bodies in their place.” Sansa had stopped crying and shook her head as if to shake the sorrow from her words. “But he said he lost sight of Bran and Rickon... He doesn’t know what happened to them.”

Jon nodded with a grimace and ran a hand through his hair, disbelief seemingly overshadowing any comfort that his brothers could still be alive. “Why did Theon sack Winterfell?” Jon asked, his tears replaced by a stony rage. “He betrayed us… Betrayed Robb…?"

“I don’t know, Jon… You can ask him yourself. He’s locked in a cell.“

“He’s here? He’s still alive?” Jon practically shouted. “Gods, I’ll kill him,” he growled, and Sansa thought that in the moment he may have meant it.

_Nobody would blame him._

She took a deep breath. “Jon… He’s not Theon anymore. Ramsay Bolton—he… He mutilated Theon horribly. Even Theon doesn’t seem to remember who he is.” Sansa said dryly.

Jon was quiet for a moment, looking deep in thought. “But Arya… Bran and Rickon… They might still be alive?” he asked then, reiterating the information with an air of somber hope.

“Yes,” she answered softly.

“And… You’re… You’re a Queen now? You—wait—is Joffrey here?” Jon asked, his voice riding in anger as though he had just remembered her original betrothed.

_Gods. Joffrey. The mention of his name still drove a cold through her._

“No—I’m no longer bound to him,” Sansa answered quickly. “But I am Queen of the North… Though that’s a story for another time.”

Jon nodded, staring at the floor—his eyes cold and unreachable. No longer holding him, Ygritte had distanced herself from Jon on the bed, regarding him with obvious concern.

“I’ll leave you now. I'll have some food brought to your chambers… I imagine you’re both tired... Jon, I’m sorry… It’s all so horrible… But, I’m glad you’re home—I don't want to be alone anymore… I—I thought I’d never see anyone in my—in _our_ —family again.”

Jon looked up to meet her gaze and pushed himself gently from the bed then, walking towards Sansa and embracing her in a desperate hug. They held each other tightly as she allowed fresh tears to fall.

But after a time, Sansa broke from his hold and turned on her heel, leaving Jon’s chambers with swift footsteps. Reaching her own chambers, Sansa closed the door behind her and sank down to the cold floor, putting her face in her hands, and beginning to sob quietly.

***

**Jon:**

Jon couldn't say how long he and Ygritte had sat in silence. He'd cried no more once Sansa left; instead entering a suspended stage of motionless emotion. His mouth was dry and he felt as though he might vomit.

_He would never see Robb again._

Jon was exhausted. He couldn't recall a time where he had broken down like this since childhood. Growing up, a mother figure substituted by a cruel and distant Catelyn Stark, he had learned to swallow his sorrow, resulting in the perpetual, stony silence for which he was so often teased.

He had shed a few tears over the death of his father, and again by that pond where he had nearly left Ygritte. But this new and heavy reality had broken the wall Jon had so carefully constructed over all these years, and he had wept like a little boy, the pain of loss too overbearing to repress any longer.

_Had he done the right thing, foresaking his vows, staying with Ygritte and seeking out his family? If he was being honest with himself, did he ultimately leave The Watch for his family... Or for Ygritte? Did it matter?_

"Ygritte," Jon cleared his throat, "I was too late... I should have left when my father was killed. I should have been by Robb's side... Or searching for Arya... Or protecting Winterfell. But... But I stayed. Ygritte, I stayed only to break my vows just a few moons later."

"I know—I know what ya did for me—what ya did for your family..." she answered softly.

"But Ygritte, you don't know," his voice broke. "I let my brothers die for me and then I killed Qhorin Halfhand to make it right—to make it so those men who died had died for a reason. But then I left—I betrayed The Watch thinking I'd be doing the right thing; going home and helping my family—staying with you. But I was too late—I didn't save anyone—I didn't help anyone but myself." The rush of emotion seemed to snowball, and all the self-doubt—all the self-loathing—came crashing down on him. "I'm no better than a turncloak... No better than Theon," he spat.

"What? Do ya really think that if you 'ad left me standin' by that pond only to go back and serve a bunch o' bloody crows who didn't bat an eye at feedin' little boys to white walkers, ya wouldn't be up on that wall freezin' your balls off and regrettin' every second of it?" Ygritte said fiercely.

"Ygritte, I'm not saying—"

"And if ya'd left and found Robb before ya swore those stupid vows, then ya'd probably 'ave died next to him! And what good would that 'ave done anyone?" she continued, growing angry.

Jon's face paled, and the lump in his throat was only growing larger. "I don't know..." he mumbled. "But at least there would have been honor in that."

"Ya don't 'ave to be a dead hero to 'ave honor!" she said exasperated. "And if you're a turncloak then so am I. Are ya forgettin' that I left the north for you? I left my people for you, Jon Snow. You are mine and I am yours. My honor is with you. And yours is with me. That's what we chose," Ygritte said firmly. "I'm sorry about your family. But there's no right or wrong in all o' this, and all these 'I could 'aves' don't do anyone any good now," she finished.

"I'm sorry," he said, putting his hand on the side of her face and pulling her in for a hug. "I love you, and there is honor in love... I know that. I never meant—I just feel so—"

"I know," she whispered, leaning in to kiss him tenderly. Ygritte leaned back to look him in the eyes. "Gods, now I know why you're so dull and quiet all the time. When ya speak like this, ya just sound a fool" she teased lightly.

Jon hiccuped a laugh and returned her kiss rather roughly.

"Let's get some sleep," Ygritte said, breaking their kiss and lying down on the bed, hissing at the pain in her ribs. Jon eased himself next to Ygritte and carefully placed an arm around her shoulder as she rested her head against his chest.

"I—I don't wish I had left you—I never meant that. I just don't know how you could love a man like me... A man who's made so many mistakes," Jon spoke weakly.

"You're the best man I've ever met, Jon Snow... And ya didn't let me down. But, you can't save the whole world."

Jon took a deep breath, Ygritte rising with his chest on the inhale. "I know," he said resignedly.

Ygritte traced his jawline with her fingers. "You know nothin'," she smiled softly.

The couple didn't speak for several minutes, and Jon lay there in silent thought, his head swarming and his stomach churning. After a time (and not sure if Ygritte had already fallen asleep), Jon leaned over and whispered, "I know I love you, Ygritte," before drifting off to sleep himself.

***

**Ygritte:**

"How long 'ave ya been starin' at me?" Ygritte asked, turning to face Jon and knuckling sleep from her eyes before giving him an amusedly quizzical look.

"Not long," he smiled. "I just like watching you sleep in a real bed is all."

"Do I look like a proper lady, Jon Snow?"

"You do... Though the blackened eye is a bit unusual for a lady," he laughed. "Did you like it?"

"The bed? Aye. And will I get my fancy silk dress too?" Ygritte grinned.

"You can have as many as you like"

"Maybe I'll start doing my hair all up like your sister's," she teased.

"I like your hair the way it is now," Jon said, running a hand through her ginger strands.

"Aye. Well that’s good," Ygritte smirked. "What's she like—your sister—Queen o' the North?" Ygritte couldn't help but say Sansa's title with an air of obvious mockery.

Jon's brow knitted in thought. "Sansa was always really girly… And I was never that close to her. She seemed to think of me as a bastard rather than a brother... I suppose I have Lady Catelyn to thank for that."

Ygritte frowned. She had heard some about Jon's family, but it felt different, being here in their castle—in Jon's home. "Did all your brothers and sisters treat ya like that?"

"No. Arya never gave a damn about appearances. She was— _is_ —wild and funny." Jon's smile faltered slightly at his subconscious use of the past-tense. "She's a better shot with a bow than I'll ever be. You'd like her." He paused. "You remind be a bit of her... And I'd say I grew up closest with Arya, even though she is a fair bit younger than me."

"And your brothers?"

Jon took a deep breath. "Rickon was pretty little last I saw him. He's a handful... And Bran—Bran was clever. But he had a fall... And he'd not woken up when I left for Castle Black... And when he did, his legs didn't work," Jon sighed.

_How could a crippled boy have escaped a siege and survived out there? It would be almost impossible for him to still be alive. And the littlest one on his own wouldn't have had much of a chance either._

She could tell by the darkened look on Jon's face that a similar thought must have also crossed his mind.

"I always wanted to show him the view from The Wall," Jon said quietly before continuing, his voice growing heavier with emotion. "And then there was Robb... Last time I saw him, he was in the courtyard. He said, 'Next time I see you, you'll be all in black.' I was jealous of Robb my whole life," Jon said wincing. "The way my father looked at him—I wanted that. He was better than me at everything—fighting and hunting and riding and girls… Gods, the girls loved him. I wanted to hate him, but I never could... I'll never see him again." Jon's voice strained and he shook his head, running a hand through his dark curls.

"Aye," Ygritte said somberly. "We all die, Jon Snow—but all that matters is how we live. It sounds like your brother lived strong and lived well."

Jon nodded and met her gaze. "He was a good man—a good brother... And a ginger too." Jon pulled Ygritte closer to him. "Tell me about you—about your family," he said, quickly changing the subject.

Ygritte dropped a hand to Jon’s chest, teasing the collar of his tunic lightly between her fingers. “I don’t ‘ave much to say. My mother died ‘aving me and my father was killed a few years back by crows like you.”

Jon grimaced slightly. “I’m not a crow anymore.”

“Aye—and this time I know you’re tellin’ the truth,” she said.

He was never a Free Folk, but he had only truthfully renounced his crow title when he’d left with her. “ _You knew who I was—what I am_ ,” she recalled Jon saying after she’d chased him down.

_By that—what was it called—windmill?_

It had hurt, and their first days on foot together had been difficult. She’d been angry. Doubts over his allegiances consumed her, and it took time to trust him again. But she had forgiven him in the end—she knew his leaving was never about her, and she understood why he’d done it. And ultimately, Jon had made his choice—the right choice in her mind—and she trusted him unreservedly and with reason (now).

“So don’t worry—I won’t pull my bow out on ya,” Ygritte smirked.

“I knew you wouldn’t hurt me,” he said, shooting her an irritated and rather cocky look.

“Aye—I never did shoot that arrow, Jon Snow. Oh 'cause you came to your senses and stayed with me,” she replied agreeably, though equally as arrogantly. 

“Tell me more about your family,” Jon said, his hand caressing her neck and sighing deeply; moving the conversation away from the discussion of his loyalties, which brought him visible guilt. She thought not to press the topic further, considering how upset he’d been the night before.

“Alright,” she said pulling a face before softening under his gaze. “After my father died, I mostly took care of meself. Tormund looked after me some though… If I needed it. Didn’t have no brothers or sisters—no fancy castle—and no kneelin’.” Ygritte finished smiling; lowering her head to rest on his chest. 

“What was your father like?” Jon asked.

“Hmm,” Ygritte sighed fondly. “He wasn’t a big man, but he was strong and a good hunter—taught me how to use a bow… And he always had a good laugh in him.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Aye.”

“Do you miss being with the Free Folk? Being north of The Wall?” Jon asked, tilting his head down to meet her gaze.

Ygritte paused. “Aye, I do… And I miss Tormund—the great brute… But I'd ‘ave missed you more.”

“Gods, he’ll split me open if he ever sees me again,” Jon said, his eyes widening in alarm.

“I’ll protect ya,” she grinned. “And as long as I don’t ‘ave to spend all my time kissin’ the asses of old fancy lords who never fought a day in their life, I can stay here… For awhile.”

“You don’t have to do that. I expect ‘the bastard deserter and his wildling lover won’t be welcome at many feasts with lords and ladies,” Jon laughed. “Lady Catelyn used to have me hidden away during important events—" he paused then, seemingly lost in thought before speaking once more. "I snuck a cake from a table one year during some lord’s visit. I’d been outside for hours and figured as long as I kept in the shadows—didn’t talk to anyone, it wouldn’t do much harm... But after the meal was over, Lady Catelyn walked into my chambers and gave me a slap hard enough to leave a scarlet handprint on the side of my face.”

Ygritte scowled, putting a hand on his cheek as though to feel the heat of Lady Catelyn’s strike all these years later. “She sounds like a right terror.”

“She was cold to me, yes..." he sighed, his shoulders heavy. "But I'm a bastard.... My very existence shames the House of Stark” Jon finished, swallowing solemnly.

“Well that ain’t your fault your ‘noble lord father’ stuck it in another woman,” Ygritte said indignantly. “If you brought home another woman’s baby, I’d geld ya, but I wouldn’t take it out on the babe.”

Jon’s mouth twitched up into a smile. “You needn’t worry—I won’t bring another bastard into this world… And I’m not even sure if I’ll even be able to give you any children at this point,” Jon said, gesturing to his crotch. “If you want children, that is,” he added quickly.

“I might do… I can see havin' some little baby Snows runnin’ around… But if ya do put a babe in me, I might knock out some of your teeth—just to get even for makin’ me all plump and swollen.”

Jon laughed, his heart beating a little faster. “You’ll be a good mother.”

“Well I’ll ‘ave you helpin’ me… And Gods, you’ll probably make a better mother than I will,” Ygritte teased. “You’re one o’ the most sensitive men I’ve met... _Can we not talk about that here. I am a northerner. Oh let's spare the old man,_ ” she rattled off in the deep voice she used when imitating him. 

Jon rolled his eyes, "I’m sorry that not wanting to kill innocent people makes me a woman,” he said, rather grumpily, responding to Ygritte's final quote—an obvious reference to Jon's failed attempts to keep safe the horse breeder the wildlings had attacked in the days between their climb and Jon’s desertion.

Ygritte laughed. “There ya go now! _I’m sorry not killing innocent people makes me a woman,_ ” she mocked in a baritone.”

Jon shook his head and laughed in spite of himself, sitting upright and making to get off the bed.

She loved taking the piss from him, but she loved _him_ even more. She wouldn’t say it, but his fairness and his compassion were of equal value to her as his strength and bravery. This softness did make him different than most of the men she had met, but she was beginning to think that the men of the Free Folk could learn a thing or two from her Jon Snow.

“But… You do want to have children?” he asked after some quiet, breaking Ygritte from her thoughts as he turned to face her.

She nodded. “And you’ll make a good father, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said sincerely. “Now lie back down with me.”

Jon slid in next to her and she wasted no time in leaning over and kissing him passionately. Their mouths moved together knowingly. Entwining tongues and nipping lips, the couple soaked in each other’s warmth. The horror of the last few days gave their kisses a sense of urgency and relief. 

Ygritte carefully rolled herself on top of him—her legs straddling his hips.

“Wait—“ Jon said, reaching out and grabbing her shoulders with his hands. “I can’t—I mean, I can—It’s working,” he said, blushing and looking down towards his bunching smallclothes. “It’s just still really… Sensitive… I’m sorry.”

“But it’s working?” Ygritte smiled and sat back on his thighs before reaching towards his growing bulge. 

Jon jerked his hips away from her. “Ygritte,” he said warningly.

“It’s alright, I’m not gonna hurt ya,” she said, delicately placing her hand on his crotch. “And look—you aren’t a woman after all, Jon Snow,” she said as she began to stroke him tenderly.

Jon grabbed her hand, his teeth clenched. “Ygritte, don’t,” he grunted. “It hurts… We can try again when they’re… When I’m not all bruised.”

“Are your balls really too bruised to get it up without complainin’? You sure this won’t help?” she said, grabbing the shaft of his penis through his smallclothes and pulling gently.

Jon nodded in pained frustration. “Aye… You’re making it worse.”

Ygritte slid off of him and sat on the bed with an annoyed sigh. “We’ll I’ll just have to take care of meself then,” she said, kneeling on the bed and pulling her sleeping tunic over her head to reveal pale skin and rosy breasts resting above the bandages on her ribcage. Jon winced.

“Oh, ya don’t like it?” she laughed, placing a hand between her own legs and beginning to move her fingers.

Jon grunted in a mixture of pain and desire and quickly pulled himself from the bed, making sure not to look at her. He picked up his breeches from the floor and stepped into them, lacing them deftly. “I’m going for a walk,” he grumbled, shoving his feet into his boots and stalking awkwardly towards the door before turning back to face her.

Ygritte had lain down on the bed, her nimble fingers caressing her slit. She looked up at Jon.”Won’t ya be cold… In… Just that tunic?” she asked between light moans; smiling devilishly.

Jon’s jaw dropped slightly and he rolled his eyes to the top of his head. “Aye, that’s the point,” he said huskily, before closing the heavy door behind him.

Ygritte laughed and relaxed into the pillows, continuing to pleasure herself—a blush blooming on her face.

***

**Jon:**

A chill wind blew, causing Jon’s dark curls to dance about his face turbulently. He ran his tongue across his dry lips—pink and cracked from the cold. The smell of the earth—mossy and wet—lingered thickly in Jon’s nostrils and a light rain misted; its drops absorbed by Jon’s thin tunic, causing the fabric to cling damply to his chest.

Jon walked to the top of the hill, his boots slipping on the slick grass, and sat down facing the castle, his back to the dark forest. His stitches prickled at his side, the threads catching on his wet tunic as the water-sodden material caught heavy wind. His mind was clearing, and the starkness of the weather had a calmingly numbing effect on Jon’s mood. He closed his eyes in meditative stillness.

After a time, Jon opened his eyes again, his dark lashes sprinkled with small raindrops. He saw three figures advancing towards him—a redheaded woman flanked by two guards.

_Seven hells. If Ygritte tried to touch him again, he’d have to sleep in the kennels._

The air had done its trick and Jon's body had only just calmed down—his lower abdomen still throbbing dully. He scowled miserably at the advancing figure and shifted in discomfort. 

But squinting closer, he soon realized that the woman wasn’t Ygritte, but instead his sister—her taller frame and flowing skirts becoming clearer as the distance between them closed. The guards dropped back and Sansa approached.

“I saw you from my window and thought I might join you—if that’s alright,” she said, her voice smooth and cool, just as Jon had remembered (though he didn't miss the way it had hardened since youth—a frigidness now clawing at its edges).

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but smile. “In the rain?”

“Yes.”

“Aye, you're welcome to... But there’s nowhere to sit,” he said, his grin growing larger in warm bemusement. 

“You’re sitting just fine—" She waved her hands impatiently. "I’m not the innocent little idiot I was when you left for The Wall, Jon. I’m not scared of a little mud,” she said, arching her eyebrows above a smirk. Sansa smoothed her dress, and then promptly sat down in the dampened grass.

Stifling his surprise, Jon looked to her with warmth. “You weren’t an idiot,” he said, blinking as he struggled to find his next words “just… Girly.”

“Hmm” Sansa chuckled, lowering her gaze to her lap. “A girly idiot.”

Jon smiled kindly before likewise dropping his head and plucking at the grass absentmindedly. “Well," he exhaled dejectedly, "I was a boy with dreams of becoming the greatest ranger The Night’s Watch had ever seen... You see how well that’s worked out,” he said, lifting his head and meeting her eyes once more. “So that makes us even, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does,” she mused; seemingly touched before growing serious. “Jon,—“

“Yes?”

“Why did you leave The Wall? I’ll pardon you—you’re my brother—but what made you leave? Was it the woman? Ygritte?”

Jon took a deep breath and tried to summon the right words. “I suppose that’s part of it, yes. I’d been north of The Wall for quite some time—since right after father’s death—and I was taken prisoner by The Free Folk… I fell in love with her then... I’d always meant to go back to Castle Black, but when the time came, I just couldn’t leave her…” He paused before continuing, his next words heavy on his tongue. “But that’s not solely the reason—The Watch—it wasn’t—well, it wasn’t... Oh I don’t know!" Jon huffed with self-directed exasperation. "I’ve seen things, Sansa, horrible things,” he said, voice dropping as he subconsciously flexed his burned hand. “And the men of The Watch were sometimes as backwards as these things themselves.”

“What have you seen, Jon?” Sansa asked darkly.

Jon winced—his eyebrows furrowing. “Little children—babies—being sacrificed and nothing being done about it... Dead men getting up in the night and walking around... And... Sansa, I've seen White Walkers.” His eyes flicked, meeting hers—his expression grave.

“White Walkers…? Like the ones from Old Nan’s stories?”

Jon nodded. “Like the ones from Old Nan’s stories.”

“Seven hells,” Sansa breathed, her brows knitting with angered disbelief. “And the men of The Watch aren’t doing anything about it?”

“They’re more concerned with killing wildlings than they are with keeping the White Walkers out” he said, shaking his head in frustration. “I don’t think anyone wants to accept that it’s happening." His shoulders slumped, his words bitter and hoarse. "They’re all fighting the wrong battle. 100,000 wildlings march on The Wall as we speak—and both sides will lose good men... But Gods, these wars won’t matter when we’re all turned into blue-eyed monsters.”

There was silence for a time, as Sansa processed this information. “Does anyone else know… About The Walkers?"

“Aye, a few ravens were sent out before I left, but I don’t think it did much good.”

Sansa’s face had drained of all its color.

“But Sansa, even knowing all this—" Jon continued, his words tumbling from his lips with uncharacteristic urgency. "Knowing that something needed to be done—knowing the threats to the realms of men... I still left… I still broke my vows." Jon looked to Sansa then, his eyes dark, as though begging forgiveness as much as resisting it. "I thought I’d be doing the right thing in coming home—if I helped Robb, if I stayed true to Ygritte; did something that made a difference—something that made up for my desertion… But I was too late." Jon shut his eyes—his lids falling softly around the globe of his pupils. "Father would be ashamed of me,” Jon said, his expression one of pained self-loathing.

“Father wouldn’t be ashamed of you, Jon,” Sansa said sternly, pausing before speaking once more—speaking aloud what she'd not before had the courage to voice. “Father chose to honor duty above all else," her voice cracked. "And look where it got him... Our whole family was ripped apart.”

Jon swallowed thickly, nodding with pained acceptance. "I just don’t know what to do now,” he said in quiet confession, his voice so low and weary, Sansa barely registered it.

Sansa sighed then, resting a hand on his shoulder—her touch flirting with the maternal affection Jon had so desperately sought all his life. But in response, his body only stiffened, and Sansa retracted her hand gently before speaking. “You can focus on healing first... But then you act,” she said softly. “There's still so much work to be done… So many people who still need saving." Her voice hardened then with direction. "Send a raven to Castle Black—tell them of your pardon—warn them of the wildlings’ plans for attack and stress the importance of uniting against a greater threat... And if they don’t listen, go north and _make_ them listen.”

_Gods, she was right._

Jon had done plenty wrong, he knew, but if he could right any of those wrongs, then he would do whatever it took... Even if it meant returning to the brothers he had betrayed.

_And perhaps with Ygritte by his side, they could convince both the men of The Watch and the Free Folk to put their differences aside for the greater good._

Ultimately, Jon nodded resignedly, his guilt not entirely assuaged by Sansa’s words, though still slightly relieved to have the inklings of a plan. He ran a hand through his dripping hair then, exposing the ruddy gash on his forehead.

“I’ve had a word with my guards about…” Sansa gestured towards Jon, face ashen, “about all… _This_.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, “What? About beating all your prisoners bloody?”

“Yes—I’m sorry.”

Jon huffed a laugh, “You didn’t do it… But alright—it’s your turn now… What’s happened to you—how did you become a Queen?”

A morose expression fell upon Sansa’s face—her lips pressed together in a thin line; the pressure draining them of their rosy color. She began to speak, and before long, her story was spilling out uncontrollably and without pause, as though she could only stand to relive each of the horrors for just a brief moment before putting them aside and quickly moving on to describes the next atrocity. Jon’s jaw tightened with grief as he listened.

She’d escaped from King’s Landing—and then again from the conniving plans of Peter Baelish. And then, with growing support (and the help of one fiercely loyal female warrior), the men in The North (what was left of them) had rallied behind her and taken back Winterfell from the Boltons.

 _And Gods, she'd been so strong... A Queen the north deserved._

“Sansa, Gods… I’m so sorry. I knew Joffrey was… But...” Jon didn’t have the words, though he expected Sansa understood. 

“I should have known right away—should have known the day they killed Lady… But I clung to the childish fantasies I’d always believed in, and I suffered for that… Father suffered for that,” Sansa said emptily. 

“It’s not your fault,” Jon said, placing his arms around her and wrapping her in a wet hug, trying desperately to return the care she had shown him.

Sansa pulled back and looked at Jon then, as though she was just now seeing him. “Gods, Jon? Aren’t you freezing?”

Jon hoped Sansa hadn’t noticed the slight flushing of his cheeks. “No—the air feels nice…" He looked to the sky, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile. "Besides, I don’t think I’ll ever be as cold as I was north of The Wall.”

Sansa let out a meek laugh. “I suppose that’s true... Jon… Is—is Ghost still with you?” She asked, almost reluctantly.

Jon thought for a moment. “I think he’s still in The North. I can’t explain it, but I can feel him there. We were separated when I was taken captive by the Free Folk, but I expect we’ll be reunited before too long—he always manages to show up when I need him.”

Sansa smiled sadly, quickly changing the subject. “So how is it that you fall in love with a woman who takes you prisoner?”

He laughed lightly. “Gods, you tell me… She’s a force unlike any other I’ve met—she’s fierce... But she’s soft too—I’m—I'm not good with words… But I do love her,” he said, an entirely unconscious smile stretching across his face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that before,” Sansa said gently. “She must be special.”

“Aye—she is.”

The rain continued to fall, gusts of wind sending sheets of raindrops crossing the sky like static. It was growing colder, and the chill was beginning to set into Jon’s bones.

“Jon,” Sansa spoke suddenly before hesitating. “I wanted to say I’m sorry—I’m sorry if I was ever cruel to you… I—.”

Jon’s expression faltered slightly, caught off guard by her apology; but a sincere smile soon crossed his face. “We were children, "he answered, as though dismissing her guilt. "But if we're apologizing, then I’m sorry for helping Arya put dung in your mattress on more than one occasion,” Jon laughed, Sansa giggling in relief along with him—an unmistakable sorrow washing over them both as they thought of the days before the war—of their family still together in Winterfell.

“We best get back,” Jon said after a time, standing up and offering Sansa his arm. “It’s getting cold.”

Sansa rose to her feet then, and without another word, the pair set off towards the castle.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters might be a bit shorter so as to get them out faster.

**Jon:**

“Why did you do it?” Jon asked in a detached and solemn pant. His hands clung to the cold and briny cell bars, the rusting iron flakes catching on the rough lines of his palms and his knuckles bleaching from the pressure. 

“Theon?” Jon growled angrily. He stared at the curled figure in the corner. The man’s clothes were graying and torn; wispy strands of greasy, tawny hair clung to the back of his head like fraying fibers of worn fabric. 

Jon’s eyes glistened in an uncomfortable combination of horror, sorrow, and fury. “Theon!” he shouted. 

The man turned to face Jon. The notches in his spine cracked hollowly with this movement, and Theon stared vacantly at Jon through clouded, crystal eyes. “I'm not him, I'm not the turncloak; he's dead. My name is Reek… It rhymes with freak.” His lips trembled.

“What?” Jon asked; his voice harsh with agitated confusion. “What in seven hells are you talking about?”

“Reek! Reek!” the man collapsed onto the stone floor, his hands fisted in his knotted hair, and began to weep. “Please!”

_Please, what? Gods… What had Ramsay Snow done to him?_

“Why did you do it?” Jon demanded again with pleading fury. “You betrayed Robb.” The weight of his words rested mostly with the accusation rather than with the question; something Theon undeniably picked up on.

“I’m sorry!” Theon sobbed. His chapped lips trembled and he wiped his nose roughly against his sleeve. Jon noticed that several of Theon’s fingers were either stumped or missing. Mucus clung to the back of Theon’s hand and his reddened eyes shut in agony. “Robb…” he choked out.

Jon’s stomach dropped, and his fingers tingled numbly in a terrified disbelief. He realized that at some point, Theon must have soiled his breeches.

“Theon, what happened to you?” Jon asked, his eyebrows no longer creased in anger as much as in repugnant and sympathetic disgust.

“Please! It’s Reek! Please—not Theon—not Theon!”

Jon took a few steps back from the cell bars with a grimace—his black boots sliding across the stones; collecting the grime.

_Gods, Sansa had been right._

Jon wondered then how Sansa had managed to get Theon talking coherently.

 _She at least got him to tell her the truth about Bran and Rickon… Maybe he should try a different approach when asking the questions? But did he even want the answers?_

“Do you know who I am?” Jon asked softly.

“You’re Jon Snow from Winterfell—Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son.” The response was automatic, Theon's voice hollow. But even so, all these years later, hearing the word _bastard_ from Theon's mouth made Jon's blood heat up.

“Yes... We grew up together in Winterfell—Theon Greyjoy grew up in Winterfell.”

“Theon Greyjoy is dead...” The broken figure choked reflexively, tears catching in the corners of his mouth.” And so is his father."

“Balon Greyjoy has died?” Jon asked in quick confusion.

“No. No—Ned Stark... He had his head chopped off… Just like Robb.” Theon trembled, wiping roughly at the salty tears puddling in his eyes. He looked up to face Jon then, not quite making eye-contact. “Master Ramsay said they sewed his wolf’s head to Robb’s body… Master Ramsay laughed… And so I did too.” He began to choke out dry sobs .

Jon’s face drained of all color and he let go of the iron bars—his hands falling limply to his sides. Jon felt his knees weaken and he shut his eyes tightly in a desperate attempt to force the sick images from his head, unable to truly process this latest bit of horror. The relentless onslaught of bad news over the last 24 hours had drained him completely, and lost for what to do, Jon simply found himself arching his head backwards and staring up at the ceiling in hardened grief. 

_It’s all too much._

“Theon,” Jon spoke after a time, only-half expecting an answer—his voice dry and gravelly. Theon again looked up dejectedly, properly meeting Jon's eyes for the first time since he had entered the dungeons. The men held their stares then for a few moments before Jon asked once more: “Why?” He tightened his jaw; gripping to his anger because it allowed him to seek refuge from the sorrow—from the tragic loss of his family, the atrocious treatment of Robb’s corpse, and from the disturbing reality of what must have happened for the body and mind of the man who lay before him—the boy he grew up with—to become so fragmented and gruesome.

Pale locks of hair fell in Theon’s face, and he had pulled his knees to his chest, curling his arms around them. And then, all memories of arrogance stripped away, Theon Greyjoy—heir to The Iron Islands—hung his head and collapsed into himself. “Because I wanted glory,” he spat. “I wanted to be somebody I wasn’t… I tried to be somebody I wasn’t. And it worked—.” Theon gestured towards his frail, shaking form. “I became Reek…” He grimaced, staring blankly through the cell bars before speaking almost inaudibly; “And I deserved it.”

_How? He’s speaking as two people within the same breath… And both of them are hellishly and loathsomely pitiful._

Jon’s body softened unpleasantly, his anger dissipating only to be replaced by hopeless weakness and a gross sense of humanity he felt for Theon. And as the strength flushed itself from Jon, he realized he had been clenching his fists hard enough for his nails to draw blood from his palms. He felt light-headed—Jon couldn’t stomach much more of this.

He didn’t know what to say. Overwhelmed and face contorted in misery, Jon turned from the cage and headed for the door silently. As he stepped through its threshold, he heard Theon call out frailly.

“I’m sorry...”

Jon kept his pace and didn’t turn around.

_Reek… It rhymes with weak._

***

**Ygritte:**

“Fuck!” she cried as her foot banged harshly against an unknown object. She stepped to the ground, her bare feet instantly reading the texture and coldness of the stones. Ygritte bent down to look at the metal pot which she had knocked and noticed a small amount of liquid still sloshing around its bowl.

_Piss! There’s a bowl of piss on the floor? These kneelers think o’ themselves all proper, but they keep bowls of piss lying around?_

The early afternoon light was streaming in through the windows and Ygritte shook her head in disbelief (both at the lateness of the hour and the kneelers’ strange customs) before pulling on her chemise and a pair of breeches.

She felt rested—not fully realizing before just how tired she had been, or how comfortable that feather bed was.

_Everything here was strange, but perhaps these lords and ladies did have some things figured out. Though... It surely won’t be long before she’ll be itching to sleep under the stars again._

Jon had not yet returned from his walk, but Ygritte was hungry and headed out of the room in search of food. She opened the door, jumping back suddenly with a startled cry.

Ygritte looked at the two men standing in armor. “What are ya doin’ outside my room?” she asked aggressively.

The shorter of the two men spoke, somewhat hesitantly. “M’lady…? We’re guarding the door.”

“What do you need to guard a door for? You afraid it’s gonna open by itself?” she asked in combative curiousity.

“It’s our orders, M’lady,” the other guard answered, in relatively confused patience. 

“…Right…” she said. “Where can I get something to eat?”

“We can have some food brought to your chambers, if it pleases you, M’lady?” 

Ygritte laughed in exasperation. “I’m not a lady. And I’m alright to get it meself—just let me know where it is.”

“Well then… I could take you to the kitchens, M’lady. If you’ll follow me,” one of the guards said.

“Alright.” Ygritte smirked and followed the man through the stone corridors. Richly embroidered tapestries hung from the walls, their green and silver threads sparkling in the shimmering torchlight. The pair walked in silence, and as much as Ygritte felt out of place, she couldn’t deny how amazing the castle was—though she wouldn’t say she was quite swooning.

_Gods, how long had this all taken to build?_

They passed through a large room with rows of tables and Ygritte spotted Jon sitting alone at the end of one, tucking into a bowl of something steaming.

“Jon Snow!” she yelled to him. “Ya can go back to watchin’ my door, now, if ya like” she said quickly to the guard before walking towards Jon. A smile flashed across his face, though there was a definite coldness in his eyes. She couldn’t blame him—she’d had losses too, but not like this—not all at once.

“What are ya eating?” Ygritte asked, sitting down next to him.

“Porridge… I’m not that hungry. Would you like it?” he said, pushing the bowl towards her.

Ygritte looked down into the bubbling gray mush. “Porridge?”

“Just try it,” he said in a somewhat challenging tone.

Ygritte wasn’t one to turn down a challenge, and she stirred the contents of the bowl before lifting a hot spoonful to her mouth. “Aye, that is good,” she smiled, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and dipping the spoon down again for another bite. “How was your walk?”

“Cold and wet.”

“That’s good—that’s what you wanted.” she laughed.

Jon returned the laugh, before dropping his voice and rumbling softly. “And how was your time by yourself?”

“Warm and wet,” she said with a wink, taking another bite of porridge.

Jon smiled and sucked his teeth. “Sansa joined me outside and we spoke for awhile. She says she’ll pardon me from The Watch.”

“Well that’s good news—I like your head where it’s at.” Ygritte reached out and smoothed his hair, tucking a curl behind his ear.

“We might have to go back though, Ygritte. Mance still marches on The Wall and the White Walkers are—well, they’re walking. I can’t just sit here… We can’t just sit here.”

“Jon, we just got down here and you’re already wantin’ to go back up North?” she asked with serious (though not harsh) surprise.

“I know. But I also know that we’re the only ones who know both sides—who understand both the Free Folk and the brothers of The Watch.”

“We’re both deserters? Did ya forget that? I don’t think Tormund will have forgotten—and neither will your crow brothers.” Ygritte said, her voice rising with emotion.

“Ygritte, I know it won’t be easy. Gods, Tormund will rip my guts out and Alliser Thorne will try and hang me the first chance he gets… But sitting down here isn’t doing anyone any good. My brother’s dead, and my sister and other brothers are missing. Sansa doesn’t need me… But The Watch needs to know The Free Folk are coming... The Wildlings and the Brothers have to work together—they'll just be wasting time killing each other otherwise. There's a more important fight brewing, and if Mance got all the Free Folk united, maybe he can unite every man in The North; regardless of which side of The Wall they're on... We have to start there.”

“Gods, you’re stubborn,” she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head in frustration… Though reluctantly growing to believe he was right.

“We don’t have to leave now—we need time to get better—time to prepare. I’ll send a raven to Castle Black this afternoon.”

“Alright… But if we do go back, you’re not gonna go back to your crow ways, are ya?” Ygritte said, mostly jesting.

“Cross my heart,” Jon smiled sincerely. “I’ll die before I leave you again.”

“If you die, Jon Snow, I’ll bring ya back just so I can kill ya again,” she smirked. “Don’t ever leave me.”

“I won’t.” Jon leaned in, pressing his lips against hers.

Ygritte responded by deepening the kiss and taking his face in her hands. She pulled back after a few moments, remembering Jon’s delicate state, and looked into his eyes grinning. “I suppose I wouldn’t have been able to stay in this castle too long anyway.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Oh!” a frown crossed her face. “Speaking of this castle, why the fuck ‘ave you got a bowl of piss sitting under the bed?”

Jon ‘s face cracked in surprised amusement. “It’s a chamber pot… So you don’t have to get up to piss outside.”

“You’d rather have piss lyin’ around your chambers than take a quick trip outside? What do you do when the bowl is full?”

“The maids empty it…”

“They empty it? Do they hold your cock for ya too?”

Jon rolled his eyes and didn’t answer—grabbing the spoon from Ygritte and scraping the bottom of the dish for a final scoop of porridge.

“Gods, I’m not using that thing while we’re here. You lot are more ‘barbaric’ than we are… Fancy Lord Snow, getting’ his maids to dump out his piss,” Ygritte mused mockingly before rubbing her hand along his back lovingly. “Why ain’t your tunic wet—didn’t ya say you were out in the rain?”

Jon nodded, his eyes suddenly lost in thought. “I stopped by the dungeons to see Theon.”

“Oh.” Ygritte’s smile fell and she turned her head to get a clearer look at Jon’s face. “How’d that go?”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to make of it, to be honest. I look at him and I still see the arrogant boy who used to push me around when we were children. I see the turncloak who betrayed my brother. But Gods, Ygritte. I’ve never seen anybody more broken. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. And the way he talked—when he’s in his right mind, he knows he’s beyond saving, and he admits he’s done wrong… He’s missing fingers and his hair is falling out. A guard told me that Ramsay Bolton had him castrated… Growing up he always used to brag about his visits with the whores in the tavern… But he’s not that person anymore—not really.”

“But he deserved it?” Ygritte said.

“Nobody deserves that—not even Theon Greyjoy,” Jon said solemnly. 

“You’re too kind for your own good, Jon Snow… But you’re a good man for it.” 

“I don’t know… The more I lose, the harder it is to be kind—to feel mercy.” Jon no longer seemed to be talking to her as much as talking through his emotions out loud.

“Aye, it’s been a hard few days,” Ygritte said in sympathy. “It’ll get easier. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it will.”

“I suspect you’re right, Ygritte… But, having all this be normal—be easy… That’s what I’m worried about.” He gave her a weak smile.

_It hurt to see him like this._

“I know…” She kissed him. “I know.”


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a quickie—more to come soon. _Eventually_ their attempts will stop being thwarted and they'll actually bone.
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Attempted rape/sexual assault.

**Ygritte:**

“Right, I’ll wear the cloak, but there ain’t no way I’m puttin’ on that frilly dress,” Ygritte said, draping the heavy furs around her.

Jon smirked and tossed the rejected garment on the bed. “I told Sansa as much… Are you ready?”

“Aye—I’m ready to see my first city, Jon Snow.” Ygritte lifted her chin high into the air and pursed her lips comically, imitating her concept of a refined lady.

Jon rolled his eyes and chuckled softly. “It’s not a city—just a town. But we’ll walk around for a bit, and then we can get some warm ale from the Smoking Log.”

A look of puzzlement crossed Ygritte’s face. “How can you get ale from a log?” she asked.

“No—the Smoking Log is the name of the tavern,” Jon answered, smiling.

“Tavern…?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you.” Jon grabbed Ygritte’s hand and the two set off together.

***

**Jon:**

He set the two frothing mugs of ale down on the table with a heavy thud. These fresh beverages joined the ranks of several empty pint glasses already sitting on the dark wood in small pools of their own condensation.

They'd been in Winterfell for over a sennight—feasting with Sansa each night, bathing in the hotsprings, and resting under the shade of the Godswood during the lazy afternoons. But in all this time, there'd been no return raven from The Watch. And so, it was following several long conversations, that Jon and Ygritte had ultimately resolved to set off for The Wall once their wounds were more fully healed—to seek compromise between brothers and crows. The bonds of their own opposing identities effectively forfeited the day that they left Tormund's roving party together, Jon and Ygritte's discussions had led them both to conclude that diplomacy was the right thing to pursue—the _only_ thing to do if the men of The Watch and the Free Folk were to have any hope of surviving long enough to help fight off The Walkers when they truly did come.

_Winter is coming indeed, and he and Ygritte planned to play a role in stopping it... But for tonight, they'd simply enjoy Wintertown's comforts._

“Cheers,” Jon said, hoisting his cup and clinking it against Ygritte’s.

The cramped air in the tavern was heavy with warm smoke; the sweet scent of pipe leaves pervasive. A group of rowdy men were singing loudly in the corner and a barmaid balanced flirtatiously on the bouncing knee of a particularly rough-looking man; her bosom nearly spilling out of her dress.

“Gods, how ‘ave her tits not fallen out yet?” Ygritte grinned, jerking her head towards the corner.

Jon turned around and choked into his mug. His face flushed and he let out an uncharacteristically loud laugh, his head filled with a pleasant, fuzzy sensation, and his eyelids feeling heavier than usual. Jon felt at ease for the first time in a few days. For the first time since returning to Winterfell, he felt relief.

_He was getting fairly drunk, and Ygritte was close behind him._

“I’d like to have you on my lap like that,” Jon said in a low voice, his eyes gleaming invitingly.

“Would ya?” she asked raising her eyebrows seductively.

“Come here.” Jon grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her onto his knees before planting an eager kiss on her mouth.

Ygritte turned herself so that she was facing him and sank into the warmth of his body. Jon could feel her chest pressed against his and he reached to grab her face in his hands. Their tongues intertwined and Jon tugged on her bottom lip with his teeth before breaking the kiss and looking into her eyes.

“Ygritte,” he hummed, his voice groggy from a combination of both the alcohol and his arousal.

Ygritte smiled. “Ya know... I like this Smoking Log, but I think I’d rather be back in that feather bed o’ yours right now,” she said, running her tongue across her lips.

Jon smiled and kissed her again. “I like that plan.”

“Aye, let’s head back. I ‘ave to piss first though—this ale is goin’ right through me.” Ygritte said.

“Me too,” he answered nodding. They both pulled on their cloaks and Ygritte headed outside while Jon rooted around his pockets for coins. When he’d gathered the appropriate amount, he tossed them on the table, where they came to rest following a fluttering series of metallic clinking. Jon hurried outside.

The vapor from his breath swirled as it materialized, illuminating the falling snowflakes for a brief moment before diffusing into the frosty air. Jon didn’t see Ygritte and assumed she must have crouched down in a nearby alley to conduct her business. He faced himself towards the side wall of the tavern and began to urinate. His head swam comfortably and Jon sighed contentedly as his bladder emptied. However, his relief was short-lived as suddenly, a hoarse scream pierced the crisp tranquility of the winter night.

_He recognized that voice—Ygritte._

Jon fumbled his cock back into his drawers, tying his laces hastily, and took off running towards the direction of her yells.

_Fuck._

“Ygritte!” he called, swiftly rounding the corner of a dark alley. In the shadows, he saw three men crowded around a petit figure—she was sprawled on the ground and thrashing wildly. The blade of a knife glinted in the moonlight. “Don’t touch her!” Jon reached for the knife on his own hip and closed his eyes in self-reprimanding horror, realizing that he had left it in his chambers.

_Fuck!_

The men turned around and laughed harshly. “Get outta ‘ere, boy. You can ‘ave a go at her when we’re done,” one of them said.

Taking advantage of the raper’s distracted letup, Ygritte kicked the knife from his hand before forcefully thrusting her foot into his crotch. The man fell over with a strangled cry and Ygritte stumbled hurriedly to her feet. For Jon's part, as he sprinted down the back street towards the commotion, he was relieved to see Ygritte still had her breeches on and appeared to be relatively unharmed.

Reaching the scene, Jon dodged the slash of a dagger before propelling his fist furiously into the attacker’s face—the force of the blow slamming the man backwards into the wall and causing the knife to fall. Without missing a beat, (and with the raper still reeling from the blow), Jon threw himself into the snow on all fours, scrambling to grab the discarded dagger. And then, with his hand securely around the weapon's hilt, he turned to see Ygritte standing furiously over the third man who was moaning loudly, his hands clutching his head. 

_It was still two knives versus one, he was too drunk to fight properly, and these men wouldn’t stay down for long._

“Ygritte!” Jon yelled, reaching out his hand. She took it wordlessly and the couple sprinted across the main drag before weaving their way into another alley.

“Are you alright—they didn’t hurt you?” he asked, shouting over the thunder of their heavy pants and pounding footsteps.

“I’m alright,” she said, her jaw set in determination. 

After running further down the alleyway, they skidded to a halt, realizing that their path dead-ended directly into a tall, wooden fence. Hearing footsteps behind him, Jon wheeled around. The forms of two running men were silhouetted in the torchlight pouring through the alleyway’s opening. “They’re down here!” one man shouted.

Jon scanned their surroundings quickly, searching for any escape route. “Ygritte, we have to climb up,” he said, bending a knee and cupping his hands into a makeshift step. Ygritte nodded, using his handhold as a launching pad and hoisting herself over the top of the blockade with several strained grunts. Jon stumbled a bit and tried to steady himself.

_Gods, why had he drank so much? The men were getting closer._

Ygritte straddled the fence uncomfortably and extended a hand towards Jon whose brows knitted in apprehension as he grabbed hold of her. He scraped his boots against the icy wood to steady himself as Ygritte pulled him upwards, grimacing at the effort.

Jon placed a foot on the top of the fence and delicately balanced himself astride, using his hands to hold most of his weight. And on the other side, Ygritte dropped down, her steps faltering with the force of the landing. Jon followed course, falling to his knees with the impact and pushing himself up hastily. 

“This way,” he said, getting his bearings as the pair ran off into the darkness, accompanied by the sound of fading shouts; their footsteps muffled by the accumulating snow.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *important note* The effects of alcohol are waning by this point—both Jon and Ygritte are capable of giving consent.
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Brief discussion/emotional processing of a previous rape/sexual assault attempt.

**Ygritte:**

“Remind me never to go to another town, Jon Snow” she said with a frank snort, her voice shaking slightly.

“Aye. We’ll not go back to anymore towns,” Jon panted in response, catching his breath.

They were safe from danger—now well within the walls of the castle. And, the lingering, drunken humming in Ygritte’s head did well in subduing her anxiety. The tips of her fingers buzzed warmly despite the chill.

They had entered the perimeter through the Hunters Gate and came to rest in the kennels. Jon was bent over, breathing deeply—his hands resting just above his knees, while Ygritte leaned against a wooden beam.

Jon straightened himself up and looked at her before beginning to laugh in what Ygritte could only assume was manic relief. “I’m sorry—we’ll never leave the castle again,” he joked. “You sure you’re alright?” he then asked, his tone sobering.

She was alright—though understandingly angry and upset. 

_Those men didn’t see her as a person, but as an object—a prize for ready consumption. The sickening injustice of it all made her blood boil; it was devastating to be treated in such a way._

Yet, Ygritte stifled her emotions and nodded cheekily. “What…? Do ya want a ‘thank you,’—for coming to my rescue?” she scoffed; and he shook his head with amused dismissal. 

_They both knew that she was lucky he had shown up. Neither one would deny that she was a capable fighter or a strong opponent. But regardless, three armed men versus one drunk and weaponless woman would not have ended well._

“Oh Jon Snow! Thank ya for savin’ me! What would I do without my handsome Lord of Winterfell?” she cried in a false falsetto as she curtsied and spun with exaggerated daintiness towards Jon.

He rolled his eyes and took her in his arms—smirking as he looked down at her.

Ygritte bit her bottom lip and grabbed his face with both hands, urgently yanking Jon’s mouth towards hers. Her tongue breeched his teeth then, relishing in the taste of him—thick and heady— before she pulled back slightly, her blue eyes swimming with unambiguous desire.

Easily stirred, Jon growled in the back of his throat, wrapping his arms more tightly around her as he pushed his lips again to hers, pressing her back firmly against the smooth stones of the kennel walls. He started running his hands down the contour of her body, stopping at her hips, where he began to massage the firm crests of their swell; each bone jutting seamlessly from the creamy skin pooled tightly in her lower stomach. Like always, his touches lingered, as though every part of her drove him wild.

_And Gods, how she'd missed it._

Working the pads of his fingers as extensions of his kneading palms, Jon continued to caress Ygritte's sides before moving his way up her torso, where he cupped her breasts and began to delicately unwrap the compression cloths from underneath her tunic. He let them drop to the ground in a bundle.

Jon was always so exhaustively attentive—so gentle and loving—inclined to give before he received. Though whether this generosity was because of the persistent goodness of Jon's nature or because he simply couldn't help himself when it came to thoroughly licking, tasting, and stroking her, Ygritte couldn't say.

But nonetheless, for her part, Ygritte attempted to return the favorable touches, equally as wrapped up in the heat of his body—his warmth. She traced the outline of Jon’s jaw with a thumb, simultaneously intertwining her remaining fingers through the thick of his curls, and every so often scraping her nails along his scalp with tantalizing pressure. After a time, Ygritte dropped her head, sucking lightly on the thick, pulsing muscle which ran the length of Jon’s neck.

He let out a small groan then, and pushed his hips flush against Ygritte’s with necessity. Jon’s cock was one step past rigid—straining eagerly against the confines of his breeches where it jutted between her legs, sending Ygritte's nails digging heatedly into his shoulders. With haste (spurred on by the fervor of impatience), she clutched at the furs of his cloak, where she nimbly unlatched it from his shoulders. The garment fell to the floor with a thud, stirring up a cloud of dust and wood pulp. 

“Get yer clothes off, Jon Snow,” she breathed quickly.

Jon obliged hurriedly, unlacing the ties of his jerkin and shucking his tunic over his head while Ygritte removed her own cloak and blouse. She reached out and grabbed for the strings of his breeches.

“You’re alright?” she asked, (barely slowing her efforts at untying him) remembering his injuries from a few days prior.

Jon nodded rigorously, the tip of his nose pink with an anticipated blush. He bit his bottom lip and threw back his head with a moan as she pulled out his manhood and stooped, taking him into her mouth.

Ygritte swirled her tongue around the head, teasing its cleft and reveling in the textural sensation of salty sponginess which filled her mouth. She drew her tongue along the length of his shaft and Jon shivered, driving his hips gently forward as Ygritte’s mouth opened to engulf him further. Jon always stopped himself from pushing too far, his restraint admirable even in the throws of such attentions. But like always, his breath eventually became ragged and short, sending a pleasurable shudder through Ygritte’s core.

Fingers weaving fervently through strands of Ygritte’s hair, Jon's eyebrows arched together in intoxication as she removed her mouth from his cock with a smile, knowing just how close he had been. But rather than pout at the loss of her touch (as he was sometimes known to do), Jon quickly brought her face up to meet his, kissing her roughly before dropping his mouth to her collar bone, and then again to her breast, where he ran his tongue around her rosy nipple, sucking seductively on its tip. Ygritte emitted a gravelly cry and looked to the ceiling; her hands once again entangling themselves in Jon’s unruly hair, his curls already damp from the intensity of their concupiscent exertion. 

After lingering at her breast for a minute or so, Jon fell to his knees and pushed his face in between her legs, licking her slit and toying at the nub on its crest in one fluid motion. Ygritte opened her mouth at the feel of it, whimpering involuntarily.

And losing herself to the wet of Jon's lips, she felt the tension building up inside her. The strokes of his tongue were slow and sensual, driving her slowly to her brink. But his mouth was gone all too soon, for after only a few blissful minutes, Jon jerked his head backwards, hastily wiping away the shiny moisture that had accumulated on his lips, and rose to his feet; plunging his tongue back into Ygritte’s mouth.

Then, hoisting her into his arms, Jon pulled her legs around his waist. Ygritte squeezed tightly, careful not to graze his healing stitches, but using the leverage to intensify their kiss all the same. She could feel Jon’s cock tensing furiously between her legs.

“Get inside me,” she demanded, breathily.

_It had been awhile since they had lain together—and Gods, she couldn’t wait._

On command, Jon guided himself into Ygritte’s inviting warmth, pushing deeply, and evoking collective gasps from them both. As he filled her, Ygritte clenched her muscles tightly around him, relaxing rhythmically to allow Jon to move in time with every joined thrust of their hips. The pleasure was maddening; the pace urgent.

But it was over quickly, for after only a dozen short pumps, Jon panted, “Ygritte—I’m sorry—I don’t—.” His breath hitched and he came then with a strangled grunt; spilling his seed and burrowing his face into the crook of her neck.

“Fuck!” he exhaled, pulling his spent cock from inside her. 

_And Gods, if she weren’t so close herself, she would have had the energy to tease him, but as it was, she wanted her release, and soon._

“Use your tongue,” she whispered airily.

Jon dropped obediently and drove his face once again to her crotch, licking furiously at her nub, which peeked out from just beneath a light patch of ginger hair. He pushed his fingers inside her then, working them in all the ways he knew she liked. And it wasn’t long before Ygritte peaked herself, arching her back; her body spasming as she let out a blissful wail.

Jon grabbed her by the hands and pulled her on top of him as he lay down on the cold floor. Settling, Ygritte picked her cloak up from a small pile of straw and draped it around their forms.

Their chests rose together with each of their heavy breaths and Ygritte suddenly began to laugh.

“What?” Jon asked, his heart still racing; a wary grin crossing his face.

“Ya looked like a girl when ya came, what with your pretty hair and your face all blushing as ya cried out.” Ygritte snorted. “Aghhhhhhhh,” she screamed in a high-pitched imitation of Jon.

Jon smiled in spite of himself and ran a hand across her hair. “Well, _you_ looked like a girl when you came too… I’m sorry I didn’t last longer.”

“It’s alright,” she answered warmly. “I’m just glad we can fuck again… And I wasn’t too far behind ya.”

Jon relaxed and let his head drop softly to the ground, closing his eyes and slowing his breathing while Ygritte traced the planes of his face with her eyes, circling the rim of his nipple with her long fingers. She sighed in contentment.

“Your balls look better.”

“They feel better,” he laughed, and she could feel his stomach muscles tightening under the weight of her. 

And as they lay there, their skin became stuck together with the heat of their bodies. Ygritte shifted her thighs and wiped away the tendrils of hair which had fallen in her face before resting her head on Jon’s chest. 

“Should we just stay here tonight?” she asked, looking to Jon for an answer, only to see his eyes shut and his mouth slightly slack in sleep. Smiling, Ygritte leaned over to peck his cheek before closing her eyes for the night as well.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real quick

**Ygritte:**

“Ygritte!”

She turned around towards the direction of the call to see Sansa approaching in the courtyard.

“Aye,” she said amiably, her voice tinged only slightly with confusion as to why Jon’s sister would be calling after her. A light snow swirled around the two women, the edges of their long cloaks brushing the white powder collecting on the ground.

“I’m glad I found you… The maids said you and Jon never came back last night. I was worried—I sent a few men out looking for you.”

Ygritte grinned in amused surprise. “We’re alright—we just slept in the kennels is all.”

“In the kennels? Why? Weren’t you cold?” Sansa asked perplexedly.

“Why not? It was on our way back from the town. And I’ve lived north of The Wall me whole life—I’m used to the cold. Besides, I had your brother to keep me warm. Though, I left him in the kennels if ya want to speak to him—his bone was pressin’ like a knife in me side and I couldn’t sleep anymore—thought I’d walk around a bit,” she laughed.

Sansa blushed and cleared her throat.

_Gods, should she not ‘ave said that?_

“Well—“ Sansa faltered. “I’m glad you two are alright. The maids will be relieved.”

“We’ve been through worse,” Ygritte said.

Sansa nodded and paused, seemingly at a loss for words. “Are you liking Winterfell?”

“Aye—it’s the biggest place I’ve ever seen, I feel like a proper lady.”

_…A proper lady who has yet to try on a dress and who fucked your brother in a kennel…_

“Good… Well, do let me know if there’s anything you need. I’ll go tell the men that you and Jon have returned safely—Oh, and Ygritte?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you tell Jon that I’ve just received word from our Uncle Brynden—The Blackfish? He’ll arrive within a few days, and we’re to throw a feast. I expect you’ll both be present.”

“I’m not sure I’m fancy enough for some Lord’s dinner,” Ygritte laughed, unsurely. 

Sansa laughed in return. “He’s not a Lord—just a knight. And I’ll have the proper attire sent to your chambers.”

“Alright,” she said resignedly.

“It will be good for Jon to have you there—he’s not a big fan of these dinners.” Sansa smiled lightly. 

“Isn’t that because he wasn’t allowed at them?” Ygritte said before she could stop herself.

She didn’t dislike Sansa, but she didn’t fully trust her either. Jon may have accepted the years of mistreatment and scorn, but his childhood tales made Ygritte angry and she didn’t like the idea of having anything to do with formal affairs where Jon was treated any differently from everybody else. 

Sansa blanched noticeably. “…I’m not sure that was always true,” she said weakly. “But in any case, he will be attending this one.”

Ygritte nodded awkwardly. “Right.”

Sansa shifted her stance in obvious guilt. “Well I’m glad you’re both alright—and please do let Jon know about my uncle.”

Ygritte smiled in an attempt at sincerity. “I will.”

Sansa turned and continued to the Great Hall. Ygritte ran a hand through her hair and sighed loudly.

_She wasn’t cut out for this lifestyle._

*******

**Jon:**

“The Blackfish?” Jon spat.

“Aye, that’s what your sister said.”

Jon groaned, wincing as the maester tugged at the threads of his stitches as he attempted to remove them. 

“Sansa said we’ve both got to be at the dinner,” Ygritte said bitterly.

“Gods, Ygritte, he hates me almost as much as Lady Catelyn did,” Jon complained.

“Did no one treat ya like ya were an actual person?” Ygritte asked angrily. The maester coughed uncomfortably. “Your sister seemed to think ya’d be excited.”

“Excited? When I was but ten and four, he grabbed me by the ear and pushed me to the dirt because I ‘looked at Lady Catelyn with disrespect.’” Jon shook his head. “I don’t think he much liked my father either—he was always fiercely loyal to his niece… And staunchly against anybody who hurt her.”

Ygritte grimaced.

“But he couldn’t very well push Lord Eddard Stark around, so he had to settle for me.” Jon scoffed sadly, “I wanted to like him—he was a great fighter—Even Arya liked him… Gods, why is Sansa asking us to the feast? I’d rather be back at The Wall.”

“Aye, we’ll be there soon enough, though that will come with its own trials… As far as this dinner, I’ll be by your side—I’m sure I’ll be as equally out of place as you are.” Ygritte said, in an attempt to comfort Jon. “…And I’ll spit in his food when he’s not looking,” she joked.

Jon laughed, wincing as the final thread was tugged from his side. He ran a hand across the closed wound and pulled his tunic back over his head as the maester left the chambers.

“I knew I could count on you,” Jon quipped. He leaned in and kissed her.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this kind of drunk? And though it may not seem like it, I _do now_ have some sort of bumbling direction with the story.
> 
> *minor edits made after the initial posting

**Jon:**

The metallic clanging of swords sounded through the courtyard like the echoing sounds from the belfry of a ship on surging waves. Sharp vibrations ran from Jon’s hands to his skull with every heavy clank, reverberating through his bones and heightening his adrenaline.

The grating of iron hummed through his palms as he ran his sword along the length of Ygritte’s, until its tip came to a shuddering halt against her hilt in a teeming deadlock. A smirk touched Jon’s lips only to be erased as Ygritte delivered a considerably weighty stomp to Jon’s leading foot. 

He jerked backwards, dismantling their crisscrossing standstill, as his sword hand dropped to his side and he waggled his leg as though to rattle the pain from his bruised toes. Jon rolled his eyes.

“You’re not fighting fairly,” he said with annoyed instruction.

“Fair? Fighting fair don’t get you very far,” Ygritte shot back with equally annoyed dismissal.

Jon sighed. “It’s the principle of it.”

“Wha’ if the other person isn’t fighting fair? Bugger principles. You don’t shake hands after a real battle—you shake the blood from your sword.”

Jon saw the logic of her argument but hesitated to concede. His eyebrows furrowed as he contemplated her words, fighting his own internal battle between the legitimacy of winning at all costs versus losing with integrity. 

_When it came down to a real fight—a fight against Wildlings, cravens, or even White Walkers—shouldn’t the rules he learned in a lord’s training yard fall to the wayside for the sake of survival?_

“It’s about honor,” Jon shrugged weakly, not quite believing his own convictions. “And, we’re not in a real fight, are we? While you have a practice sword in your hand, you might as well learn the basic rules…Besides, you should know how to wield a sword without relying on cheap tricks,” Jon said.

Ygritte scoffed, smiling. “Alright, Jon Snow. Teach me to fight like a proper kneelin’ lord. Should I kiss your boots after I split ya open?” She laughed.

“After I split you open, you can kiss me all you like,” he said; his tone flirtatious despite the sternness of his voice. 

Ygritte raised her eyebrows tauntingly. “We’ll see,” she said before swinging her sword at Jon once again. He blocked her blow with relative ease, pushing her off quickly. Ygritte stumbled backwards several steps while Jon squared his stance offensively. 

Before Ygritte was able to fully regain her footing, Jon landed a hefty blow to her back. She grunted in anger and determination, lunging at Jon once again.

He dodged her attack effortlessly before striking a blow of his own, disarming her calmly. “You’re too reckless—you won’t win by waving your sword around like that. Try again,” he said, throwing her the fallen sword. “Time your attacks.”

Ygritte caught the sword, her mouth twisted in frustration.

It felt nice to have the upper-hand with her (a rather rare sensation for Jon in their relationship). Ygritte could use the training, as her sword skills were sufficiently lacking. And Jon was glad to have a sword in his hand again—his body was out of practice. Besides, the Blackfish was to arrive tomorrow and he needed all the distraction he could get.

His stomach turned at the thought.

Ygritte attempted another hit, lurching forward with excessive momentum. She staggered as Jon sidestepped the strike—the expected contact with his sword not realized. 

“Keep your elbows in—thrust with your sword, not your body,” he said as Ygritte wiped a hand across her sweating brow in determination. “Ready?”

Ygritte nodded and Jon sliced his sword through the air in her direction. Ygritte parried the blow effectively and counterstriked swiftly, hitting Jon in the upper arm.

Her mouth curled into a competitive smile and she withdrew into a defensive position. Jon reacted quickly, hacking his sword through the air powerfully. Ygritte met his hit with her own sword, but the power of the blow threw her off balance, and she lost her footing. Jon took advantage of her faltering steps and rammed the butt of his hilt into her side, causing her to fall to the ground.

He went to place his sword at her neck, but paused when he heard the sounds of nearby laughter. Turning towards the source, he saw several guards leaning against the surrounding fence; doubled over and pointing in the direction of Ygritte and Jon’s spar. Jon realized that the group had several familiar faces—Radford and Henry among them. His jaw clenched angrily and the scar in his side suddenly burned with their memory.

_Seven hells._

“Oomph!” his breath hitched as the tip of Ygritte’s sword poked sharply into his bladder. She was lying on the ground with a sly grin plastered on her face as she pressed the sword further into his pubic bone. Jon stepped back, grimacing as he put a hand to his lower abdomen and jerked his head in the direction of the raucous. 

Ygritte followed his gaze, her brow furrowing with contempt. Jon knew this look well.

_She was going to snap._

“Oi!” Ygritte snarled loudly at the men, “Ya can ‘ave a go at us if ya like—but let’s fight with even numbers this time!”

Jon grabbed Ygritte’s shoulder, roughly turning her to face him, a warning look crossing his face. She shrugged him off.

“From the looks of it, girlie, you wouldn’t be much of a challenge,” Henry yelled back. "You've spent most of your time on the ground!" 

“Well let’s see how ya are with a bow then—I’ll bury my arrow in the center of your eye before you can so much as blink!” Ygritte shouted.

Jon closed his eyes and put a hand to his forehead.

“Ygritte, let’s go. We can practice somewhere else,” he said, trying to calm his own rising anger.

Jon could see Ygritte’s heartbeat pulsing angrily in her temples. She gave Jon a long, hard look and marched towards the men, her sword dangling furiously (with obvious inexperience) at her side.

_Fuck._

“Ygritte!” he yelled after her. The men continued to laugh.

She ignored Jon and continued to address the guards. “You best keep your mouths shut!”

“And why should we?” one man shouted.

“Because I’ll cut ya if ya don’t—I don’t follow the same rules as these fancy lords,” she said, gesturing towards Jon, who was standing just behind her.

“I don’t see no fancy lords!” Radford scoffed from his seated perch on the fence, “all I see is a _Snow_ and his Wildling bitch!” 

Jon blanched as fury clouded his vision. He glared at Radford. “Don’t call her that!”

Ygritte wheeled around, “I don’t need you to fight my battles,” she seethed at Jon before turning back towards the laughing men. “Right, you and me—“she said, pointing towards Radford, “let’s go.”

Jon threw his head back to compose himself—his brown eyes staring blankly at the distant clouds.

“I won’t waste my time on you, girl,” Radford spat.

“I’ll give you _my time_ , Wildling… You look good on your back.” Henry said, before looking at Jon. “Bet he’s not been all too satisfying as of late. How are your stones, bastard?”

Jon ran a hand across his mouth, harshly rubbing his bottom lip. He stared at Henry with cold malice and noticed Ygritte pull the knife from its sheath on her hip.

“That’s enough,” Jon said sternly, though to who specifically he was addressing was unclear.

“What, you going to run and tell your sister?” Radford simpered, his legs swinging teasingly from his resting post.

Before Jon could answer, Ygritte hurled her knife towards the men. It stuck just between Radford’s legs, pinning the fabric of his britches to the top beam of the fence with splintering accuracy. The guard’s face went white and his companions took a step back.

“One more word, and I’ll go higher,” Ygritte said, pulling a second dagger from her boot. Radford's eyes grew even wider.

_Gods, how many knives does she have?_

Jon walked forward slowly and tugged the knife from its hold, scowling at Radford as he did so. He handed the weapon back to Ygritte. The guard’s mouth twitched in agitation, but he didn’t utter another syllable—instead dropping to the ground on the opposing side of the fence.

“Aye, that’s what I thought,” Ygritte said with antipathy, before spitting on the ground by Henry’s feet.

She turned to walk away and Jon gave the men one final look—his blood only just calming from a boil to a simmer. He followed Ygritte, feeling the stares of the men burning into his back.

_He was glad the altercation had gone no further, though he certainly would have liked to take a swing at the men…because that had worked so well last time._

Jon smiled bitterly to himself.

“Gods, they’re pricks,” she said to Jon as they rounded the castle's corner, shaking him from his thoughts.

He laughed. “Aye. I’ll ask Sansa to send them to the furthest corner of The North.” He paused, grinning cautiously. “Why do you have so many knives?”

“You can never be too prepared. I may not be a swordsman, Jon Snow, but I know my way around a dagger,” she said coolly.

Jon smiled. “Well, I’m glad you’ve got it out of your system—you’ll have to be more… Behaved… When the Blackfish gets here.”

“More behaved?” she grumbled. “Not stickin’ that knife between his eyes _was behavin’_.”

Jon wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “I know,” he sighed. “…And if you ask me, you should have aimed higher,” he smirked.


	8. VIII

**Ygritte:**

Standing in her underclothes, Ygritte was staring distastefully at the dress in her hands just as Jon opened the door to their chambers.

“Sansa’s uncle has just arrived—I suppose it’s time to make ourselves presentable,” Jon pouted, picking up a wineskin from the table. “We’re going to need this,” he said, tossing it to Ygritte after taking a hearty swig himself. Warm red juice dribbled down his bottom lip.

Ygritte smiled sympathetically. “It’ll be alright,” she said (equally to convince herself as much as to calm him). 

Jon eyed Ygritte then, as though fully noticing her state of undress for the first time since entering the room. “Are you going to wear that to the dinner?” he teased, arousal glinting in his eyes.

Ygritte shot him a look. “What, you Southron folk don't wear yer smallclothes to fancy meals?” She walked towards Jon, her underclothes clinging to her drying skin, and placed her hands on his chest.

“We don’t… But looking at you makes me think we should,” he rumbled.

“Come ‘ere. Let’s get you in the bath—the water’s still warm,” Ygritte said, pulling off Jon’s tunic before turning to tie her damp hair with a piece of leather, cascading her locks to one side of her neck. Jon shucked off his boots and stepped from his breeches.

Ygritte laughed in response, noting his semi-hardened member. For his part, Jon blushed and shifted his feet awkwardly before walking towards the tub. 

“You still act a maid, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said, handing him the wineskin as he lowered himself into the water with a hiss. She kneeled beside him then, dipping a rag into the water and running it across his back; the tips of his hair curling tighter with the rising steam.

“I thought you said you Free Folk don’t kneel,” Jon said after another swig from the skin. And glowering mirthfully, Ygritte dipped her fingers into the bath, quickly flicking a barrage of water droplets into his face.

She smirked. “Watch it—I can scrub ya a lot harder than this,” Ygritte jested, circling the rag over his shoulder blades. 

The corners of Jon’s mouth tugged into a smile and he relaxed deeper into the water.

“Ygritte,” he spoke after a time.

“Hmm?”

“I’m—I… I feel like a little boy again. I know how they’re all going to look at me… How he’ll look at me.” Jon said; his voice raw with emotion. 

Ygritte sighed heavily, her heart twisting. “You’re better than all them anyway,” she said soothingly.

“I’m a bastard deserter who’s hiding behind his sister in his dead father’s castle,” he said bitterly, throwing his head back and taking several more gulps of wine.

_He needs to slow down. Gods, we’re not even at the dinner yet._

Ygritte grabbed the skin from Jon and ran her fingers gently through his hair. “Careful—that's my Jon Snow you're talkin' about.”

Jon laughed feebly, still looking decidedly grim.

And then Ygritte rolled her eyes desperately. “Gods, Jon, you can’t go around carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders every minute,” Ygritte said with exasperated concern. “You know why ya did what ya did—I know why ya did what ya did. Who cares what some southron knight thinks… And what kind of name is Blackfish anyway?”

Jon smiled before pulling his brows together, a gesture of miserable worry Ygritte had become well-accustomed to. “It’s just that—“

_Gods, he wasn’t going to listen to reason… But she does know one way to relax him._

Ygritte reached into the water then, grabbing his cock with a soft hand; pulling the foreskin back and swirling her finger around its tip as her palm began to glide along his shaft. She pumped her fist once, twice, and Jon let out a restless moan as she bent down to kiss him.

As time went on, she felt Jon melt under her touch and subsequently quickened her pace, likewise deepening the kiss. And soon enough, Jon was at full-mast, humming and pushing his hips softly in time with the rhythm of her hand.

But suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and Jon jerked, sending Ygritte’s fist tightening instinctively in surprise.

“Ouch!” Jon hissed.

Ygritte loosened her grip. “Sorry,” she said quickly, standing up to answer the door—stopping only to wrap herself in furs. “Alright!” she shouted harshly, as the knocking continued.

Ygritte wrenched open the door then, coming face to face with a guard whom she did not recognize.

“What?” she asked in irritation.

“Oh, um…” his eyes shifted towards the tub before wandering over her furs. “Well… Lady Sansa calls for Lord Snow and his Lady.”

Ygritte laughed at the absurdity. “Tell her we’re comin’. We’re just gettin’ dressed.” She said, shutting the door before the man could respond.

“Jon, we—“

“I heard,” he grumbled, stepping out of the tub, his erection jutting out prominently from between his legs.

“We’re a mess,” she chortled. “Help me into this nightmare,” she said, tossing Jon the dress.

He smiled warmly and put his hands on her shoulder, bending down to kiss her neck sweetly.

She shrugged away, stepping into the long gown. “I promise that we can finish this after the dinner, but right now, we’ve got to get ready.” It wasn't lost on her, how bizarre their current situation was—she talking Jon into attending a castle's feast.

_But she wasn't doin' it for her._

He huffed and pulled the material up over her shoulders, dropping his hands to tie the laces in the back.

Ygritte turned around. “How do I look?”

“Gods, you look amazing,” he said earnestly. 

She looked down to survey her own appearance.

_Simple. Deep grey. Modest neckline. It could be worse._

“Right—your turn. Where are the clothes that Sansa got for you?”

“On the bed,” Jon said, reaching once again for the wine.

Ygritte collected the garments and thrust them into his arms. “Dress,” she said sternly.

Ygritte watched as he pulled on his smallclothes, adjusting himself as he did so. Jon then put the maroon tunic over his head shaking his arms into the sleeves. His usual black jerkin was the final touch (not an unexpected addition to the outfit).

Jon struggled as he stepped into his britches. “Gods, these are tight,” he winced.

Ygritte laughed loudly. “You look ridiculous! Are you sure your sister sent those for you?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. “Seven hells!” Jon exclaimed as he tied the laces. “Let’s just leave for The Wall tonight, Ygritte.”

Ygritte grinned and pecked Jon on the cheek before picking up the wineskin from the floor, taking a long drink. Her head buzzed warmly as she grabbed his hand and walked towards the door.

_Here we go._


	9. IX

**Jon:**

Jon could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest as they walked through the hallways. The wine coursed through his blood and his feet dragged reluctantly against the stone floor with each stumbling step. His knees buzzed warmly.

Jon winced as he pulled at the cloth of his britches.

_Gods, they were tight._

His body had not yet relaxed from Ygritte’s grip just minutes before, and the new clothes were doing little to conceal his problem. Jon ran a shaking hand through his hair and took a deep breath as he walked further.

Getting closer, he could hear the Blackfish’s booming voice echoing from the Great Hall. Jon’s stomach dropped.

_That certainly reduced the swell between his legs._

“You’re alright,” Ygritte said, taking Jon’s hand and sliding her fingers between his.

_She did truly look beautiful in the dress._

The couple stepped into the warmth of the Hall. Candles burned everywhere, their collective haze bathing the room. The light bounced off the deep, polished wood of the long tables and rousing music drifted pleasantly from several stringed instruments being plucked jauntily in the corner.

Jon recognized a few vaguely familiar faces pass him through the crowd of guests, though he could not place them with any specific names or titles. After all, they never would have had proper introductions or shared any conversations with Jon. He knew his place—out of sight and out of mind…

_Where he’d very much like to be right now._

Jon grimaced sourly as his eyes came to rest at the end of a table towards the rear of the Hall. Sansa sat with Brynden Tully and several other indistinguishable nobles; her face flushed gracefully with laughter.

Steeling himself, and gripping Ygritte’s hand tighter, Jon weaved his way over to Sansa. 

“Jon!” Sansa’s face lit up warmly, and Jon offered a weak smile in return. “Uncle, you remember Jon, and this is his…” Sansa faltered “…this is Ygritte,” she said, turning her attention towards the Blackfish.

Jon extended a clammy hand towards the knight. “Hello, Ser.”

The man only eyed Jon with stony contempt, lifting his mug to his mouth and taking a deep swig of ale. Jon dropped his hand awkwardly by his side and held his breath. He felt Ygritte’s nails dig into the backs of his fingers.

“Aye, I remember Jon Snow,” he said, his eyes glazed with contention and drunkenness. “Where have you been, boy—while your family has been fighting and dying for The North?”

Jon ran a hand roughly across his mouth and clenched his jaw tightly. “I’ve been at The Wall.”

The Blackfish’s eyes lit up with cold amusement. “Is that so? And why are you not there now? Last I heard, the men of The Night’s Watch didn’t serve the realm only when it suits them?”

“I—“ Jon began, before he was interrupted by his sister.

“Uncle, Jon left The Night’s Watch with the intent to join Robb—he didn’t leave lightly,” Sansa said; an edge to her voice that Jon hadn’t seen before.

“Ah… Just in time, then,” the knight said with bitter sarcasm. “Well… At least you could make it to _this feast._ ”

“Be kind, Uncle,” Sansa said warningly, her discomfort blaringly obvious. “Please sit,” she gestured towards the empty benches and Jon and Ygritte subsequently took their seats at the table. 

Jon noticed that Ygritte’s cheeks were flushed and she scratched aggressively at the collar of her dress before reaching out and pouring herself a cup of ale. Jon followed her lead.

Time passed and the meal was eaten through awkward pleasantries and forced conversation, though Jon, Ygritte, and The Blackfish remained largely silent—their attention mostly focused on knocking back drinks. Every now and then, Jon would feel Ygritte’s fingers caress his knee comfortingly. 

Once the plates were cleared, The Blackfish started again. “So, Snow, do you intend to play at Lord of Winterfell now that you’re back?” he asked. “With all the true male heirs dead or missing, I suppose Ned Stark’s bastard gets his shot?”

Ygritte slammed her cup down onto the table roughly, and Jon’s fingers tightened around his own mug. His knuckles turned white with the pressure.

“I’m not claiming to be Lord of anything.” Jon said firmly. “I’m going back to The Wall—we leave within the fortnight.”

The Blackfish scoffed. “Oh! So they let you just come and go when you please now? Do vows mean nothing? Do you have no honor, Snow?”

Sansa must have noticed the raised voices and quickly turned her attention to the conversation. “Enough,” she said, rigidly.

“He’s no better than a turncloak!” The Blackfish said with an exasperated laugh. “If you ask me, Sansa, you should chop his balls off and throw him right in the cells with Theon Greyjoy.”

Ygritte spoke out at last. “Would you shut up?” she said angrily. “Do ya even know what’s happening in The North—in the real North? Do ya know why Jon’s even goin’ back to The Wall?”

A tense silence permeated the air and The Blackfish eyed Ygritte before letting out a dismissive grunt and looking back at Jon.

“Your Wildling needs a bit more training,” the knight said, emptying his mug of ale.

“Uncle Brynden,” Sansa said, reaching out to grip his shoulder, her tone stern. She appeared to be on the brink of tears.

Jon’s blood boiled and his head pulsed dizzyingly with the effects of the wine. Ygritte laughed harshly just as Jon felt himself snap.

“Don’t.” Jon threatened, straightening his back and staring at The Blackfish heatedly.

“Don’t? Don’t what? I’ve been waiting years to give you a piece of my mind, boy. You’ve disgraced my sister—this family—since you were born!”

“Stop it! Just stop it!” Sansa yelled. In the back of his mind, Jon became increasingly aware that the humming of the room had quieted, with all eyes turned towards their table.

“I’ve disgraced the family? I may not be a Stark by name, but I know that if I were at that wedding, I would have been by Robb’s side the whole time! Where were you when Roose Bolton put a knife through my brother’s heart?”

The Blackfish launched himself from his seat then, spilling his ale and reaching over the table to grab the front of Jon’s jerkin. Despite Jon’s struggle, he was dragged from the bench and thrown to the ground, where The Blackfish pressed his knee roughly against Jon’s chest and leaned close to Jon’s face. The vein in his temple throbbed prominently as his eyes bulged with fury.

“How dare you!” he screamed, his breath hot.

Jon threw his elbow defensively into the knight’s chin, who responded immediately by landing a heavy blow to Jon’s face. Jon began to taste the warmth of blood fill his mouth—its crimson color staining his teeth like wine. 

But before The Blackfish could attack again, he was pulled roughly upwards by two guardsmen, and Jon wriggled away, hauling himself up quickly—furious and embarrassed.

Sansa rushed to his side, “Jon, I’m so sorry,” she choked. But Jon shook his head at a loss for words and stumbled in the opposite directions.

The Blackfish wrestled against the guards’ restraining grips, spittle flying angrily from his mouth. “My sister should have sent you away the second you showed up on this doorstep!” he shouted as Jon stalked furiously towards the door.

“Aye, she should have!” Jon growled over his shoulder. And while Jon hoped The Blackfish interpreted Jon’s response as combatively sarcastic, there was a part of him that did agree with the sentiment.

 _Maybe the Starks would have been better off without him. After all, it was only Sansa left now, and he certainly wasn’t doing her any favors… Unless you call ruining a dinner feast a favor._

Jon wiped the blood from his lip and continued lividly out the door, heading towards the Godswood.


	10. X

**Jon:**

Jon woke up to the sound of tittering birds and fluttering wings. He knuckled sleep from his eyes before opening them—spots of colored light bubbling across his vision. Jon’s breath tasted of stale blood and ale, and his head pounded something awful. His bladder was uncomfortably full. 

_Why was he sitting? And why was he outside?_

Back aching, he arched himself away from the rough surface on which he was leaning. Jon looked down at the heavy cloak covering his form—a light dusting of snow coating the dark material. Blinking several times, he looked around the wooded area. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust before realizing that he was leaning against the Weirwood tree.

The events from the night before came surging back to him, and Jon put his head in his hands and groaned.

Suddenly, he jumped, startled by a voice.

“Oh, you’re awake now, ya fuckin’ idiot?” Ygritte said harshly, pushing herself up from her own seated position across the clearing.

_Had she been sitting here all night?_

“Ygritte? What—?”

“Do ya know how long it took me to find ya? What was your plan, Jon Snow? Freeze to death?” she spat, kneeling down in front of him and taking his chin roughly in her hand.

Jon winced with a mixture of shame and discomfort. “I didn’t—?”

“Your sister was so worried, I thought she might rip all o’ her fancy braids out!”

“Oh gods—Sansa… How upset is she?”

“She’s not the one you need to be worrying about,” Ygritte growled.

“But—the feast?”

“Aye! The feast was a right mess, but did ya think that dyin’ alone in the snow would somehow make it better? Gods, you know nothin’!”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep… I was drunk and angry. I don’t really remember how I got out here.” Jon mumbled weakly.

“Oh! Well then it’s all alright!” Ygritte said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry,” Jon grimaced.

Ygritte sighed deeply and rubbed her thumb soothingly across his busted lip before dropping her hand from his chin. She shuffled forward and straddled Jon, sitting on his thighs with her knees bent to the ground, squeezing his hips.

“I know.” She said, meeting his tired brown eyes; her blue eyes scintillating with fleeting anger and growing warmth.

Jon shrugged the cloak from his shoulders then, pooling the dark cloth across Ygritte’s lap and freeing his arms to wrap her in a loving embrace. 

Ygritte toyed with the hem of his tunic before allowing herself to give into the hug, leaning into Jon and relishing in his heat.

“Were you here all night?” he asked after awhile—his voice gravelly.

“O’ course I was.” Ygritte twisted from his grasp and shoved his shoulder hard, slamming him into the bark of the tree. A wry grin crossed her face. “Gods, you’re dim.”

Jon smiled and pulled her close again; his eyebrows knitted worriedly despite his touched appreciation.

“I’m sorry.”

Ygritte broke the hug. “Aye, so ya’ve said,” she laughed teasingly and lifted her hips up to tug at Jon’s cloak, freeing the material from her seated weight and wrapping it around them both before sitting back on Jon’s lap.

She pressed her hands on his lower belly, reminding Jon of the tension in his bladder.

“Er—I ‘ave to piss.”

“Wha’? Right now?” she asked with staggered irritation.

“Mhmm.” He jerked his hips and made to get up, but she only pushed on his stomach harder. Jon squirmed with discomfort. “Ygritte,” he flinched with a whine.

“I didn’t stay up all night in the cold for nothin’.” And with that, she bent over, driving her lips against Jon’s so quickly, it caught him off guard. He resisted for only a few seconds before opening his mouth and allowing her tongue to enter; the pressure in his abdomen soon replaced by growing arousal.

"Ygritte—this is the Godswood," Jon panted, pulling back despite being properly ruffled. "Surely—" but he fell silent at the look she gave him.

"So?"

"So... It's a sacred place."

She scoffed. "Jon, if ya think the Gods will be offended by a bit o' ruttin' between two people who love each other, then you're dumber than ya look."

He bit the inside of his cheek, not entirely convinced.

"Trust me, they've seen worse," she cooed, dragging her knuckles slowly along the growing curve of his cock.

_And Gods, but he didn't need anymore convincing._

Fully enticed, Jon grabbed Ygritte's bottom lip between his teeth and tugged gently before moving his kisses up her jaw line and towards her ear, where he nibbled lightly, swirling his tongue around her lobe and sucking gingerly. A husky moan fell from Ygritte’s mouth then, and Jon’s lips curved into a resulting smile against the arch of her graceful, porcelain neck. He nuzzled and nipped for a time, acting as though each flick of his tongue could drive away the prior night's bitterness—could make up for Ygritte's exhaustive watch.

But his ministrations were soon halted—ever-so briefly—his breath hitching as he felt Ygritte’s hand fall again to his crotch, stroking him through the fabric of his britches. Changing course, he pushed his lips back to hers then, and they stayed in such a way for a time, the cloak draped around their forms trapping the heat of their bodies—the humidity from their touches building warmly.

But after a particularly firm rub culminating in Ygritte’s thumb swirling around the head of his clothed cock, Jon let out a strangled moan and dropped his mouth to her collar bone.

“I want to take this off you,” he panted heavily into the crook of her neck, pleased to feel Ygritte nod keenly in his hold. He made quick work of his task and then, rid of all barriers, Jon reached out and took hold of both Ygritte's breasts in his hands, moving the plump of his lips once again to the base of her jawline. Ygritte began to untie the laces of his britches as he kneaded his palms gently into her flesh, using the tips of his fingers to caress her nipples into erect points.

He removed one hand from her breast then, sliding it into the waistband of Ygritte’s drawers, where he ran his fingers across the soft patch of hair before slipping down to caress her slit. And with one finger rubbing her bud in a circular motion, and another breeching the slick of her opening, Ygritte’s breathing began to grow staggered.

Jon lost himself in her smell—her feel—moving his fingers in all the ways he knew sent Ygritte gasping and shivering. But he began to work all the more insistently when his cock was sprung free, his own arousal further spurring this growing feeling of momentary oneness.

_The feeling of, just for a little while, being wrapped up in a whole other person._

Ygritte grasped his manhood in a warm fist, pumping his shaft slowly up and down and sending his eyes fluttering.

_And Gods, it almost hurt how hard he was._

“Get inside me, Jon Snow,” she gasped, removing her hand from his throbbing length to shuck off her breeches. And Jon responsively fumbled, trying to slide his own breeches to his knees without knocking Ygritte from his lap. But balance shaken, she wobbled regardlessly, tipping over and catching herself with one palm spread in the snow. Jon huffed a clipped and apologetic laugh, reaching out quickly to steady her.

“You alright?”

“Mhmm. I will be,” Ygritte replied airily, wrapping the cloak again around them as she returned to her position, sliding her sex over his cock; lubricating his shaft with the wet of her folds. It sent a driving shudder through Jon’s entire body, and lost in his haze of pleasure, he looked down, vaguely noticing that his jerkin had been untied.

_When had that happened?_

But, his distracted musings were soon interrupted, for without pause, Ygritte grabbed his manhood and slid herself down; down until the red hairs between her legs teased the dark ones at his base. The couple let out a collective moan then, and gripping Jon’s shoulders tightly, Ygritte began to ride him.

His head arched back as he bit his bottom lip hard, reopening the wound from the night before, but caring little.

_He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last._

But Jon tried to steady his breathing all the same, determined not to make this short-lived. And to his credit, he managed to keep Ygritte’s pace, spilling his seed only seconds after she peaked herself, her walls clenching tightly around him as Jon rubbed furiously at her nub, prolonging her orgasm so that she was still shivering violently even once Jon himself had started to soften.

Utterly spent, both Jon and Ygritte collapsed into each other, breathing deeply as their hearts raced.

“That was really good,” Ygritte panted, smiling. “I should get mad at ya more often.”

Jon smiled back at her, but squirmed slightly as he felt another pressure building rapidly in his abdomen. And though he was briefly surprised by how quickly his libido had recovered, he swiftly realized the reality of his situation.

_He needed to piss immediately._

“Seven hells!” he grunted, shoving Ygritte hastily (and rather roughly) off him, pulling his breeches up from his knees and stumbling forward in the snow a few steps.

“Oi! What’s wrong with you?” Ygritte yelled in angry confusion, pushing herself quickly to her feet from behind him.

Jon held his semi-hardened member in his hands gently and tried to fully relax. However his progress was slowed when Ygritte shoved his shoulder harshly.

He closed his eyes in discomfort and steadied himself from the blow, trying to aim his softening erection away from her without hurting himself. “Stop! I really ‘ave to piss.”

Her mouth curled into a grin and she let out a blunt laugh at his expense. 

“Go over there!” he yelled with amused disdain, pointing away from him and desperately urging his body to comply with his needs.

Ygritte cackled and took a few steps away before Jon took a deep breath and closed his eyes, gasping in relief as his stream started to flow.

_Gods, it felt good._


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little filler before their long journey to The Wall

**Ygritte:**

“You really shouldn’t be doing this when you’re hungry,” Ygritte laughed. “I promise ya we won’t need that much bread!” She leaned over and tried to grab the loaf of bread from Jon’s hands.

He jerked away from her, letting out an uncharacteristically loud laugh. Ygritte laughed in return. “Take it over there—I’ll pack the food.”

He’d been acting light-heartedly (by Jon Snow standards) all afternoon, and she suspected he felt relief to once again have a purpose. Winterfell wasn’t the home he had remembered, and after last week’s unpleasant dinner, she had also felt more than ready to leave. They were to set out early in the morning and his comparatively cheerful behavior was such a welcome change from his normal demeanor. She was happy for him despite his bothersome interfering with her preparations for their journey. 

Jon smirked, taking the bread and leaning casually against the table as he ripped off a fair sized chunk with his teeth. The bulges in his cheeks rose up and down as he chewed.

Ygritte wrapped some cured meats and cheeses into a wide piece of cloth and laid the bundle next to the packaged bread and water skins.

“We’d better pack some ale for those cold nights,” Jon said in between swallowing.

“What? Ya think I won’t keep ya warm enough, Jon Snow?” she smiled. “But aye, do us a favor and fetch a skin or two—no more though! I’m not draggin’ your drunk arse all the way to The Wall.”

Jon grinned and headed towards the cellar, bread in hand.

Ygritte noticed her own hands were shaking slightly. As much as she didn’t want to stay in this castle, she couldn’t deny a creeping nervousness over the anticipation of what’s to come. 

_What if the Crows wouldn’t take Jon back? What if the negotiations didn’t work? And if the Free Folk were as stubborn as she knew them to be, it would take a lot of convincing to regain their trust in her, let alone in Jon and his men._

She knew Jon had to be worried as well… But his fears seemed to be manifesting themselves into vivacious hunger at the moment. She shook her head and laughed.

_How she ended up in a Lord’s castle in love with a mopey Crow and preparing to journey to Castle Black, she’d never fully understand._

Jon returned and plopped two generously filled ale skins by the pile of their rations. His tone had turned slightly more serious. “How are you feeling?” he asked, gulping down the last of his bread.

The question surprised Ygritte, as Jon was not often a man who willingly delved into exploring emotions. Though she supposed that as time went on—as the two of them grew closer—his walls were breaking down.

Ygritte hesitated, not wanting to bring him down, but also not wanting to ignore the gravity of their situation. “I’m alright,” she said after a moment or two. “I’m not much lookin’ forward to what’s to come, but it’s the right thing to do… And I’m glad you’re by my side.” She smiled lightly and Jon walked forward to wrap her in his arms. 

He kissed her temple softly. “I’m feeling very much the same,” he said.

Ygritte twisted in his arms and pushed her body flush against his, pressing a firm kiss against his lips.

She pulled away and looked into Jon’s dark eyes. He grinned affectionately and rustled her hair before placing another kiss on her forehead and pulling her close into a tight hug.

“We should join Sansa for dinner,” he said after a spell. “It’s our last night here.”

“Are ya still hungry?” she asked with surprised laughter.

He paused a moment, the smile still on his lips, but his eyebrows knitted in thought. “Aye… I’m filling up for the journey… Just in case you’re not as good with that hunting bow as you were before you became accustomed to the luxurious life of a Lady of Winterfell,” he jested.

Ygritte scoffed. “Is that right? Oh, you’ll be lucky now if I share any of my kills with you at all, Jon Snow.”

He paused in mock concentration. “You’re right—I take it back. What would I do without you?”

“Well on top of starvin', I reckon ya’d pout a lot more,” she laughed.

Jon grinned in return and took her hand in his. “Let’s have our last feast, m’lady,” he said sweetly, leading her from the kitchen and towards the hall.

***

**Jon:**

Snow fell loosely as Jon hugged his sister tightly. She smelled of lemons.

“I will see you again,” Sansa said with almost forced certainty.

“Aye, we’ll see you again,” Jon answered softly.

“Be careful, Jon… Write me when you reach The Wall.”

“I will.”

“Jon—“

“Hmm?”

“You’re doing the right thing—going back. I’m sorry about the other night—about my uncle—you’re brave and honorable and—”

“Thank you,” Jon cut her off before she could continue, not entirely sure he could stand such praise, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be back,” he said firmly.

Sansa nodded and Jon turned, walking towards the saddled horses; Ygritte already perched atop her mount. He hoisted himself onto the great, black beast and looked back towards Sansa, waving once before twisting towards Ygritte.

“Ready?” he asked.

Ygritte simply smiled and kicked her heels into her horse’s sides, effectively provoking the first few steps of many on their long journey to The Wall.

Jon nudged his horse and followed suit, not once turning around as Winterfell retreated behind him. He couldn't stomach one last glimpse of the home he once knew.


	12. XII

**Ygritte:**

The sun set, marking the end of their sixth day on the road; the world blackening coldly on this moonless night.

“You’re actin’ like a baby!” Ygritte said.

Jon sat on the opposite side of their modest campfire, an anxious wince spread across his face. The kindling crackled and rustled crisply, sending burning embers dancing about lazily before burning out into the night. “I don’t see—“ he griped reluctantly before Ygritte cut him off.

“Ya told me to pick a game and I picked… Or are ya already givin’ up, Jon Snow?” Ygritte taunted, biting her plump bottom lip seductively as she sat herself down next to Jon.

Jon laughed with a sort of helpless astonishment. “What do I get if I win?” he asked.

“Ya get the feeling that for the first time in your life ya beat me at something,” she responded with a grin as Jon rolled his eyes. “And, ya get to pick the next game.”

“Alright,” he conceded grumpily. “But won’t it melt? How are we supposed to stay warm if our breeches are soaked?”

“Gods, you’re boring—If you’re so worried about your breeches gettin’ wet, then you best give up before it melts,” Ygritte said.

Jon huffed. “So whoever bows out first loses?”

“Aye, those are the rules, Jon Snow.” Ygritte raised her eyebrows competitively and let out a bark of laughter. “We’ll see who the proper northerner is.”

Jon held his eyes closed, seemingly to collect himself. 

Ygritte chuckled and bent down, packing some snow into a large ball with her gloved hands. She handed the cold mass to Jon before scooping up another snowball, nearly identical to the first one.

Jon weighed the snow in his hand with apprehension. 

“Ready?—and it’s got to go in your smallclothes,” Ygritte said authoritatively. Jon nodded, his full lips pressed into a tight grimace. “Right. One…Two… Three!”

Ygritte shoved the snow down her breeches as Jon did the same, both of them inhaling sharply as the frozen ice made contact with the heat of their sensitive flesh.

“Seven hells!” Jon gasped.

Ygritte squirmed in discomfort but maintained composure, breathing out a frosty laugh at his expense.

“Why are we doing this?” Jon whined, shifting his hips, his fists clenched tightly. “It’s melting!”

“Ya might as well just give up then—frostbite sounds right painful,” she teased.

They sat in silence for a minute or two, letting out whimpers every so often (though Jon’s were becoming increasingly more frequent).

“I’m not goin’ to lose to ya, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said after a particularly desperate squeal erupted from Jon’s mouth.

His eyes were shut tightly; his trembling lips turning blue. A flash of decision crossed Jon’s face and he grunted loudly, pushing himself quickly from the ground. “Aye, and I’m not losing my cock!” He yelled, pulling the front of his britches down and shaking the watery remnants of snow from his smallclothes, exposing his genitals; ruddy and shrunken from the freezing conditions.

Ygritte let out a raw shriek of victory and relief, wasting no time in tugging at her own breeches and dumping the melting load onto the ground, wiping away what remained on her crotch with a furious hand.

“I’m not playing any more games with you,” Jon said bitterly, dropping moodily onto some furs and brushing leftover snow from his lap.

“Oh it’s too late for that—I won and I’ve already picked the new game!” Ygritte said, scooting next to him.

“What? Should we just shed our clothes and see which one of us freezes to death first?” he quipped, grumpily.

“Oh would ya stop bein’ such a sore loser?” Ygritte said. “You owe me.”

Jon sighed deeply. “What do you want to play now?” he asked dutifully.

“I want to play that game where you put yer mouth on my cunt,” she said, unabashed.

Jon’s eyes sparkled with surprise before darkening in arousal; he leaned forward wordlessly, cupping the side of Ygritte’s face with a hand and humming softly as he pressed his lips against hers.

Trailing kisses down her neck and to her abdomen, Jon rubbed her thighs softly, teasing her crotch with fleeting fingers. Ygritte’s breath picked up as he burrowed in between her legs, removing her breeches and relieving the cold with his warm, soft, mouth. Jon licked at her slit, lapping up the melted snow and making Ygrirtte tremble explosively; the fluttering sensation in her lower stomach radiating heatedly from her center.

She wrapped her fingers around his dark curls and writhed beneath him; her body at the mercy of his tongue. Ygritte savored the delicious contrast between the fire of his mouth and the ice of the air. 

_Fire and ice—two opposing forces, just like us._

Ygritte trembled, her stomach clenching as Jon sucked her clitoris with unrestrained desire, and her release came. Jon continued working his tongue and her orgasm hit her in multiple steps of growing ecstasy, before her body softened exhaustedly.

Jon slid from her crotch and pushed a passionate kiss against her mouth. She tasted herself on his tongue, and deepened their embrace; wrapping her legs around Jon’s hips and pulling him flush against her. She could feel his erection grinding into her core, stirring up arousal in her loins once again.

Her lust rebuilding rapidly as Jon continued his movement between her legs, Ygritte undid the ties of his breeches and yanked them down. His liberated cock bobbed about eagerly and Ygritte gave his shaft a few quick tugs before guiding him inside her.

He let out an uninhibited moan and plunged his tongue further into her mouth as he rocked his pelvis into hers with increasing speed. Jon came mightily after a minute or so; bringing Ygritte to her second climax with nimble fingers and his tongue at her breast as his own body shuddered to a finish.

The couple lay on the furs panting. “That was a much better game,” Jon said as his breathing returned to normalcy.

“Aye—I agree… I’d rather _this_ sort of Snow in my breeches,” Ygritte crooned languidly, rolling over and resting on Jon’s chest—her head rising and falling with his steadying breath.

“Do you remember the first night we spent together? When you were my prisoner?” Jon asked.

“Oh ya mean the _one_ night you actually managed to keep me prisoner?” Ygritte jested, snuggling closer.

Jon smiled. “We slept close to stay warm and you kept moving your hips against me. I thought I might die right there. Gods, you must have been able to feel my heart racing in my chest.”

Ygritte laughed in return, “Aye I remember—though your heartbeat wasn’t the only thing I could feel.”

“I never had a chance, did I?” he smiled warmly. “It was always going to be like this—you and me.”

She picked her head up and pressed a soft kiss against his lips, closing her heavy eyelids; her hand splayed tenderly across his chest. “You are mine and I am yours, Jon Snow. Always.”

***

**Jon:**

"Are you scared?" Ygritte asked bluntly.

“Yes… Aren’t you?” Jon said honestly.

“Aye, I am."

“We’d be fools not to be nervous… I can see the look on Thorne’s face now.” Jon bobbed up and down rhythmically in his saddle to the steady gate of his large, black mare. A light snow dusted her coat, sleek with the sweat of her enduring labor. Jon patted her neck; absentmindedly running his fingers through her coarse mane.

Ygritte rode to Jon’s left, her chestnut mount trotting rowdily, kicking up bursts of snow and shaking his head wildly.

_Like girl, like horse._

“Even if by some miracle, I’m not strung up by my thumbs the moment I walk through the gates at Castle Black, I’m sure Thorne will do all he can to have me out of sight, digging latrines… I hope Mormont has returned—he's more likely to listen,” Jon said bleakly. 

Ygritte rolled her eyes and turned around to face him. “We’re not makin’ this trip so ya can dig shitholes, Jon Snow. You’re a free man—pardoned by your Queen sister. And if there’s one thing I know about you Southron folks, it’s that lords and ladies and their rules mean a whole lot,” she yelled over the wind.

“Aye, but I broke the rules that hold The Watch’s entire existence together,” Jon said. “That’s what worries me.”

“You’ll make them see—you ‘ave enough friends there. Like you say, _winter is comin’_ , and those crows ‘ave to ‘ave realized what that means by now,” Ygritte answered.

“I hope so,” Jon said drearily. “Did I ever tell you that I pulled a knife on Thorne?” he laughed softly.

Ygritte smiled in return. “From what I’ve ‘eard of him, it sounds like he deserves it. What made noble Jon Snow go after a knight with a knife?” she asked.

“He called my father a traitor,” Jon said soberly before redirecting the course of the conversation. “How do you think Tormund will take it?” he wondered aloud.

“What? Us comin’ back—with me as your crow wife?” she clarified.

Jon smirked. “Aye.”

“I should be able to talk him down before he’s split your skull open,” she said, with what Jon felt was little reassurance. “Mance might be more complicated. He won’t take kindly to us leavin’ his party, but he knows better than anybody how important it is to get south of The Wall. If you can get The Crows to hear reason, Mance will do what’s right,” she said with certainty. 

_From what he had known of Mance, he expected Ygritte was right._

“I just hope all the Free Folk are still listenin’ to him,” Ygritte said on second thought.

They continued in silence for a few leagues, dismounting briefly only to give the horses a rest or dash behind a barren shrub and relieve themselves. The wind picked up, and the snow was falling more steadily.

Ygritte’s horse had passed Jon’s, and he could only just make out the distant silhouette of a figure perched upon the animal’s bouncing rump through the heavy snowfall.

Jon reached down to adjust his boot in a twisted stirrup. Facing frontwards again, his eyebrows knitted in confusion, taking a few moments to process the change in his scene.

Ygritte’s horse was still there, but it was riderless.

“Ygritte!” Jon shouted, kicking his horse into a brisk run, his thumping heart caught in his throat. He called her name again as he approached the horse, calming only slightly as he realized the beast did not seem to be in distress.

“Jon Snow!” Ygritte’s familiar voice carried through the winds. “Come join me! Watch your step!”

Jon dismounted and followed the direction of her calls until she appeared clearly in his field of vision. He smiled, seeing her ginger hair flutter about wildly—her hood knocked off from the harsh wind—and continued forward, his pace quickening.

“Oi, be caref—!” Ygritte shouted. But it was too late.

With one misplaced step, Jon had fallen smack on his back and was sliding across the ice with his legs flailing frantically in the air.

“Seven hells!” he spat hoarsely while Ygritte cackled manically.

She slid over to Jon, who was lying on his back spread-eagle; his arms and legs splayed pathetically. “What? ‘Ave you never seen a frozen lake before?” she asked through her giggles. Ygritte dropped her voice several decibels in her classically mocking imitation of him. “I’m Jon Snow and I’m a northerner, but I've never seen ice before.”

Jon picked up his head from his prone position and eyed her with considerably playful irritation. “I’ve seen ice before,” he huffed. “But I wasn’t really paying attention to the ground—I was a little more focused on wondering where in the seven hells you had gone off to.”

“Well, when you’re done your whinin’, why don’t ya take my hand and show me how to dance? We never did go to any proper balls back at Winterfell,” Ygritte said, extending a hand towards Jon, who by this time had pushed himself to a seated position, his arms propped on bent knees and his hands dangling between his legs. Jon’s damp hair clung uncomfortably to his face.

“You want to dance?” he asked in disbelief.

“Why not? When was the last time you played on a frozen lake?” 

“Not since I was a boy… And I probably haven’t danced in just as long,” he laughed. 

He sighed deeply before cracking a grin and taking her hand; sliding his thick boots across the ice with measured control. Jon dropped a hand to her hip and placed another on top of her shoulder, pulling her snugly against him and stepping to his left. 

“Alright, follow my steps,” Jon said, gliding Ygritte with light force as he poorly walked through a couples’ dance he could remember. They stumbled a bit, and after one particularly uneasy slip, Jon laughed and dropped his other hand to her hip. “I never was much good at dancing.”

Ygritte laughed in return and took both his hands in hers, skating backwards on the ice until both their arms were completely outstretched. Linked together, the couple spun around, building speed and laughing loudly before Ygritte’s feet caught a chunk of solid snow and they both went sprawling onto the ground. Jon’s hands were scratched and raw, but he didn’t mind, crawling over to Ygritte and lowering his body onto hers, placing a warm kiss on her mouth.

Ygritte kissed him back, and they lay with one another for a few minutes before pushing themselves up and returning to their mounts.

***

**Ygritte:**

Darkness had fallen and Jon and Ygritte were gathering kindling for their fire. The storm from a few days ago had passed and the night was silent. The glistening snow was bathed in yellow moonlight and the parched, dead trees cast eerily thin shadows cutting across the untouched, white ground of the small clearing.

By Jon’s account, they would be to The Wall within another fortnight. Ygritte reckoned if the snows continued to let up, they would be there even sooner.

They circled the clearing, venturing several generous paces into the surrounding trees to gather comparatively dry twigs protected by the thickening density of the forest.

Ygritte held a long stick in her hand, smacking it lazily against Jon’s back as they trudged patiently through the snow, their eyes scanning the ground.

Jon hit at the stick and bent down, scooping a handful of snow and tossing it lightly in her direction. Ygritte covered her face as the snow sprinkled her front and rushed Jon, slamming playfully into his side with her hips.

All of the sudden, her world was turned upside down. The ground lurched beneath her as she was hoisted roughly upwards, her limbs mangling with Jon’s as a roped netting synched around them. Ygritte tried to steady herself, her arm falling through a hole—the rope burning her wrist with the movement.

“Jon!” she yelled, maneuvering to meet his eyes. The netting had caught around his inner thigh and with a pained grunt, he jerked his weight up by pulling firmly on a higher rope until he was resting in a seated position; cradled next to Ygritte in the swaying net.

Her eyes darted around wildly to makes sense of what had happened.

_They were trapped like animals, hanging dangerously high off the ground. How had this happened?_

Ygritte's mouth went dry as she heard the approaching sounds of human voices accompanied by the sight of torches. She steadied her breath and with one hand reached for the dagger in her boot, grabbing Jon’s hand tightly with the other.


	13. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer.
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Graphic descriptions of violence/brief allusion to rape.

**Jon:**

Longclaw was lying in the pile of scattered sticks slowly sinking into thick snow beneath the swaying net. Face grinding against rough twine, Jon stretched his arm through a hole in the netting, grunting in angry despair as the sword’s hilt settled just out of reach; his empty sheath dangling uselessly from his hip.

_Seven hells. Ygritte’s knife alone wouldn’t do much against whatever was coming._

His heart hammered underneath thick layers of fur as he righted himself once again in the net, one calloused hand gripping coarse rope—the pink pads of his fingers wrapped tightly around a bristly knot while his other hand constricted protectively around the fleshy base of Ygritte’s palm.

_Not that she needed his protection…_

Eyes darting furiously, Jon’s mind sharpened on minute details as several silhouettes emerged from the tree-line.

_Ygritte’s cheeks were ruddy; her breath coming in shallow pants, the way the netting rubbed his thigh; scraping the skin through his breeches and drawing against his leg hair with stinging pressure, the crunch of frosted snow under threateningly heavy boots, and the flicker of torch-fire splashing across approaching faces; illuminating ragged scars, menacing in their nature._

“Look wha’ we’ve got ourselves ‘ere, lads!” the largest man turned to the three behind him, mouth widening in a sneer revealing gnarled, yellowed teeth. “We’ve caught ourselves a pair o’ fine morsels.” He stopped his advancing just out of arms-reach and cocked his head to survey his captives. Letting out a husky laugh and waving his axe pointedly in Jon’s direction, the man shouted, “Why, this one’s prettier than you, Anja!”

“Won’t be so pretty when I’m pickin’ bits o’ him out of my teeth with her bones,” the wildling woman snarled in response, taking a step closer as she pointed from Jon to Ygritte in reference.

“Jealousy, don’t look good on you,” another man spoke. His thick beard trembled with laughter at the woman’s—Anja’s—expense.

“Shut up, Kaleb,” Anja spat.

Ygritte grabbed Jon’s coat, pulling him towards her as he bowed his ear to her mouth. “Thenns,” she whispered fiercely, her hand fisted firmly in the furs of his hood. Sinking horror spread across Jon’s face, his full lips scrunching into a fearful grimace.

_If Tormund wasn’t just spinning tales…_

“You Thenns are disgustin’” Ygritte growled at the group, shoving herself away from Jon and bearing her teeth like fangs.

The large man scoffed, shrugging tauntingly. “Well, at least we’re 'bout to be disgustin’ _and_ full. You look like you’ve ‘ad nothin’ to eat for weeks—we’ll be doin’ you a favor—puttin’ you out of your misery. Though, you won’t be givin’ us much in return… All skin and bones, girl.”

_Gods…Old Nan had stories of wildlings cooking men alive._

The bearded wildling (Kaleb) eyed Ygritte hungrily before speaking again. “Ullr’s right… She don’t ‘ave much to give. We could always just fuck her first? She’s got that pretty red hair. Hells, fuck ‘em both—I’d not be surprised if this pretty lad’s got a nice wet cunt between his legs!”

“I’m not eatin’ anythin’ you’ve fucked,” the large man—Ullr—said amusedly to Kaleb.

“Gods, speaking of fuckin’, how’d you two manage to get wrapped up in the same trap?” Anja interrupted harshly, looking towards the net. “Were you two ruttin’ up against that tree?” She laughed.

“We were getting firewood,” Jon said darkly.

“On top of each other?” the woman snickered.

The fourth Thenn (and the smallest of the wildling men) craned his neck over his companions and scanned the ground beneath the net. “Right kind of ya to gather all o’ this for us,” he said, moving to collect the pile of timber—the scars running down his cheeks flashing purpled and angry in the firelight. He hesitated, noticing the shine of Valyrian steel amongst the frost and bramble. “That’s a nice sword ya got there,” he mused, stretching his arm towards Longclaw. 

Without thinking, Jon lunged forward, his fist thrusting through the ropes and making contact with the man’s mouth in Jon’s frenzied attempts to grab the sword from the wildling’s hand. The man reeled from the blow but regained composure quickly, shielding the sword from Jon’s reach and delivering a swift head butt to Jon’s face.

Jon heard a loud crack as his vision exploded with stars and he fell back, supported only by the swinging netting.

_Gods. That’s a broken nose._

The wildling man spat on the ground and eyed Jon with steely disdain. “I’ll enjoy killin’ you,” he smiled, blood irrigating through gnashed teeth.

“Well go on then—do it!” Jon seethed in reply.

_Death by stabbing or even hacking seemed preferable to boiling alive, and at least the close-range required to wield weaponry would give him the opportunity to go out fighting. And Ygritte did have at least one knife on her… Maybe she would have a chance._

“Well, we’ve already got these rabbits for tonight, see,” Anja said, holding up the bodies of five limp snow hares in a fistful of long ears. “Be patient—we’ll ‘ave ya fresh tomorrow.”

“Oi, give us a look at that, Freyr,” Kaleb said, gesturing towards the smallest man who was greedily inspecting Longclaw.

“Get your own sword, ” Freyr responded, grabbing the rabbits and stalking deeper into the clearing accompanied by the sound of whistling wind and a disgruntled horse whinny. Kaleb sauntered after him.

“Why don’t you just eat the horses and let us go?” Jon asked angrily, wiping blood on his sleeve and knowing the futility of the question before it even left his mouth.

“More fun this way… Horse don’t taste nearly as good as a man does. Besides, those beasts may be of some actual use to us.” Ullr smiled cruelly, gathering the pile of sticks below the net and turning to follow Freyr. “Keep watch, Anja.”

Anja’s lip curled bitterly at the order, but she quickly turned her attention towards the net as she pulled a jagged dagger from her waist and pointed it at Ygritte. “Why don’t you toss us that shiny knife you’ve got in your boot,” she said.

Ygritte faltered and Jon’s heart sank. 

“What?” Ygritte scoffed with outrage and exaggerated confusion.

“Ya think I’m as dim as them three? Your hand’s been dancin’ at your boot ever since we found ya,” Anja said, raising her eyebrows confrontationally. “I’ll give ya to the count of three to throw that knife into the snow or I’ll kill your pretty lad, here,” Anja demanded, pivoting her knife towards Jon.

“One…”

The muscles in Jon’s stomach clenched.

“Two…”

He looked to Ygritte.

“Th—“

The knife landed just between the woman’s feet—its black handle sticking rigidly into the air. Ygritte huffed furiously and grunted in frustration.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Anja simpered, resheathing her dagger before leaning her back against a nearby tree trunk and sliding to sit at its base; the newly acquired knife grasped firmly in her fist. 

Jon adjusted his seating and laid his face against the ropes; nose throbbing and hair damp with sweat and melted snow. He shut his eyes, praying to the Gods that he and Ygritte would make it out of this. She sat in silence next to him, cradled by the netting; her legs curled up to her chin.

Time passed, and they kept warm despite the chill—their mutual body heat radiating through their layers of furs. The Thenn men had started a fire and were busy skinning the hares to hang from a makeshift spit. Anja sat and picked at her nails with Ygritte’s dagger; cursing loudly whenever she nicked flesh. She had only just closed her heavy eyelids—her head jerking as she feigned attempts at maintaining a state of awakeness through her guard duty.

“Ygritte,” Jon whispered carefully… Perhaps too carefully.

No answer.

“Ygritte,” he hissed again (slightly louder this time) and nudged her lightly in the side. She turned towards him, smiling faintly. Her eyes darting towards Anja’s slumped form and scanning the clearing, she leaned closer to Jon. Keeping her gaze on their guard, she dipped her fingers gingerly into her furs and slowly pulled out a second knife.

_Of course she’d have more than one knife on her._

Jon’s eyes flickered with warmth before snapping his head towards Anja concernedly. The wildling woman nodded awake and grunted loudly as Ygritte swiftly moved her hand—knife in firm grasp—behind her back, passing it surreptitiously to Jon.

Understanding her intent and working stealthily, he began to quickly saw through a portion of tough rope lying just beneath his hip. He tried not to think about what would happen once they were cut free.

_One knife alone wouldn’t stop four Thenns._

Ygritte adjusted her positioning so as to further shield his actions from Anja, who had joined the waking world and returned to pulling at her dirtied cuticles. She looked up and Jon’s hands froze, his heart rate accelerating. “What are you lot lookin’ at?” she sneered.

Jon exhaled shakily. “Nothing,” he said, his voice as steady as he could make it.

Anja scowled and looked again to her nail beds, sucking mucus loudly from the back of her throat and spitting a sloppy mass into the snow.

Jon grimaced and resumed his work, reaching his hand down every now and then to gauge how large the resulting gap from his efforts had grown. 

All of the sudden, his vision clouded and he fell into the netting. Jon abruptly felt distant—different. Thousands of smells immediately overwhelmed his senses, causing him to whine at the intensity.

_Fire, snow, blood, meat—hares—what’s happening?_

His movement wasn’t his own, and his breath came in sharp pants.

_Running… Gods, he was running… And his nose didn’t hurt. Could this be a dream?_

He was running towards a source of light, the smell of roasting rabbit heavy on his tongue as he weaved his way through thick trees on fast footsteps. He could smell something else too—something very near… Something so obvious it seemed foreign… _someone_ so obvious.

_Jon… That smell was Jon Snow._

He was approaching a distant clearing, slowing his pace so as to remain undetected. He looked down at a set of large white paws.

_His paws._

Understanding washed over Jon. He’d had moments like this in his sleep, but never before while he was conscious—never before like this.

_Ghost! Could Jon really be warging? And could Ghost really be so close?_

As quickly as it had come, Jon lurched back into his own body gasping for air and opening his eyes to meet Ygritte’s frightened gaze. He still clutched the dagger in his hand, and did his best to keep it hidden as he surged back into consciousness.

“Oi!” Anja yelled. “What are you doin’? Did ya faint?”

Jon cleared his throat. “I must have done… Yes” he answered breathily.

Anja scoffed. “Gods. You two will make a sorrier meal than those rabbits over there. How’d you even manage to survive this long?”

“We’d been doin’ fine ‘til you lot showed up,” Ygritte snarled, before looking back at Jon, who was thumbing his nose in pain as his face returned to color under smeared patches of dried blood. “You alright?” she asked with fearful tenderness.

Jon nodded. “Ghost is here” he mouthed airly. Ygritte nodded slowly in return, her expression one of both dawning understanding and hesitated trust.

Jon returned to his original task with renewed fervor—sawing back and forth in furious, clandestine motions. When the hole seemed large enough to shimmy through, Jon balanced himself against the ropes and subtly passed the knife to Ygritte, who took it gently—blade-first—as she placed her feet in firm rope-holds and turned her body towards Anja. 

Jon strained his neck from his crouch and saw only Ullr and Kaleb by the fire. He panicked, whipping his head behind him and then back again towards the inner clearing, breathing a sigh of relief when he noticed Freyr crouched—shitting—at the opposite tree-line; Longclaw hanging mockingly from his unclasped belt.

_Ghost was nearing—he could feel him._

Making meaningful eye-contact with Ygritte, Jon nodded subtly. With lightening movement, Ygritte hurled Jon’s knife through a netted hole where it settled solidly between Anja’s eyes. The wildling died silently, an expression of shock still etched on her face as a line of thick, concentrated crimson meandered down the planes of her nose.

Ygritte hissed in triumph and Jon slumped in brief relief against the netting. “Go,” he said, pushing Ygritte towards the sizable hole beneath them. He kept his eyes on the campfire, comforted to see Freyr still squatting at the clearing’s edge and the other men still concentrating on skinning their dinner, as Ygritte fell through the gap and landed softly in the snow.

The net swung dramatically as her weight dropped, and Jon’s legs splayed uncomfortably as he tried to maintain balance. Ygritte reached up and steadied the ropes, allowing Jon to slip through with relative ease.

He watched Ygritte walk to Anja’s body and reach for the knife in the woman's limp hand, tossing it to Jon before he began to walk slowly forward—his boots crunching lightly in the deep snow, eyes on the living wildlings, their backs turned to him.

_Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Ghost was very close now._

By now, Jon was only twenty paces behind Kaleb, Ygritte (having now pulled the second knife from Anja’s skull) more or less of an equal distance behind Jon. He placed his steps carefully and bunched his fingers into tense fists, pivoting his head for any signs of his direwolf. Jon could hear the sickening ripping of fur from flesh as the wildling man worked at skinning the final hare.

All of a sudden, a cry erupted from the far side of the clearing. Jon froze. A flash of white and a blood-curdling scream ripped through the air as Ghost sank fangs into the tender meat of Freyr’s shin, his britches still around his ankles.

“For fuck’s sake!” Ullr yelled loudly, hustling towards the ruckus, axe in hand. Kaleb stood to follow, but whirled around just as Jon heard the unmistakable crack of a twig snapping. Jon turned to see Ygritte—a large broken branch lying underneath her fur boot; one faulty step clearly responsible for the warning sound. Even from the distance, Jon could still see her eyes clenched with self-directed fury.

“Oi!” Kaleb yelled, noticing the escapees and pulling a rough sword from his belt as he charged towards Jon.

Thinking quickly, Jon reached out and grabbed a charred log by the fire, closing the final gap between himself and Kaleb. Jon pivoted, leaning back dramatically to dodge a swing of the sword before regaining balance and swiping the blackened stick through the air, catching Kaleb in his hip.

The wildling roared and knocked Jon’s weapon aside, throwing Jon off balance and sending him scrambling into the snow.

_Fuck._

Vulnerable from the ground, Jon grabbed a handful of snow and threw it at the wildling, hoping to buy himself a few extra seconds as he pushed himself to his feet. He lurched to a standing position just as he heard Ygritte’s shout.

“Jon, duck!” she shouted, knife cocked in hand.

As quickly as he had returned to two feet, he slammed himself down in the snow, his ribs tweaking painfully as the wind was knocked from his lungs, a bursting ball of pain inflating inside his chest. Gasping for breath, Jon still managed to roll himself over as Kaleb fell to the ground screaming where Jon had been lying only moments before. 

His breath returned and mustering all his energy, Jon lunged to the fallen wildling, noting the bloodied knife lodged just underneath his right eye. He brought Ygritte's second knife up and started violently stabbing the man in the heart. Jon couldn’t say how many times he pushed the knife into Kaleb’s chest, but before long, his body had stilled and his wailing was silenced. Coming to his senses, Jon looked around hastily.

Ygritte had passed him and was facing Ullr, a look of unbridled rage on his face as he sprinted towards her. Thinking quickly, Jon grabbed Kaleb’s discarded sword and rushed to meet the charging wildling.

In some peripheral realm of awareness, he heard Freyr’s cries die out.

_Ghost must have finished with him._

“Move!” he shouted, ramming his body into Ygritte’s to push her out of the way. Stumbling a step or two, Jon watched as the axe was raised above his head threateningly. He dropped to his knees and rolled forward, grunting with exertion and thrusting the sword upwards through Ullr’s stomach. The wildling gurgled with furious pain and swung his axe weakly in Jon’s direction, who dodged it with relative ease as he slammed his boot into the back of Ullr’s knee. 

Jon kicked the axe from the man’s hand, where he lay crumpled—the ragged blade of the wildling sword jutting from his lower abdomen. Ygritte crawled to the axe, picking it up and burying it swiftly in the man’s skull, halving through the puffy scars which girdled his bald head.

Jon lay back in exhausted relief before finding himself under attack once again—this time at the mercy of a long, pink tongue, lapping at the blood which covered Jon's face.

“Seven Hells! Where have you been?” Jon said, grabbing Ghost’s large head in his hands and wrestling the direwolf into a scruffy hug.

Ghost stood over Jon, lifting his head with an air of silent strength and licking blood from his shiny black nose. He licked lightly at Jon’s extended fingers. “I’ve missed you, boy,” Jon said, his voice rolling with gravely sweetness.

“Fuckin’ Thenns!” Ygritte shouted as she stomped over and threw herself down in the snow next to Jon. Jon couldn’t help but smile. He tasted iron and wiped again at his nose before spitting out a fair amount of blood. “So this is Ghost?” she asked in a softer tone, reaching out and rubbing Ghost just behind the ear, who much to Jon's surprise, leaned pliantly into her touch.

_He's never taken to anyone this quick before._

Ygritte rested her head on Jon’s chest. “How’s your nose?”

“I’ve had worse,” Jon answered, sucking diverging streams of blood from his teeth. 

Ygritte heaved a heavy sigh. “So… Have you ever warged before?” she asked skeptically.

Jon met her gaze and shook his head truthfully. “No. I think I’ve… They must have been dreams… But nothing like this—never while I was awake.”

“A warg and a crow,” Ygritte mused with loving disbelief. “You’re one of a kind, Jon Snow,” she said.

He laughed softly. “Not a crow.”

“Aye,” she smiled. “Not a crow.”

***

**Ygritte:**

“Ygritte,” Jon spoke after a time.

“Hmm?”

“I need to go to Castle Black alone,” he said with hardened resolution.

Her stomach dropped. “What?” she said, propping herself up on her elbows and shooting him a stony expression.

“I’m—Ygritte. Tonight—we—well, we almost didn’t make it out. If it hadn’t been for Ghost—“

“Aye, we were lucky your white wolf showed up, but that don't change nothin' about Castle Black,” she said, her voice lingering just on the cusp of anger. “We need each other.”

“I know. I know.” Jon said. “But I can’t lose you—I can’t keep putting you in danger,” he said. “The Wall is no place for—for a girl—even though you could easily outfight more than half the men there,” he finished quickly, noticing obvious offense cross Ygritte’s already angered expression. “If I march back into Castle Black with a wildling woman—“

“Have you forgotten that this was the plan the whole time?” she seethed. “You can’t do any of this without the Free Folk by your side!”

_He couldn’t leave her… This line of talk felt all too familiar._

“Aye, I can’t do it without the Free Folk, but that doesn’t mean you have to be one of them.”

_He can’t be—this can’t be like the time at that windmill; like the time at that pond._

Ygritte was growing more and more upset—more afraid and confused by his intentions. “And why not? Have you forgotten all that ya promised me?” she asked, her voice rising furiously. “Don’t you betray me, Jon Snow,” she finished—iciness clinging to her words.

_She’ll cut his cock off—this time she really will._

“What? Ygritte! Gods, I’m not betraying you—I just don’t want you to get hurt. Castle Black won’t be safe for you. I wasn’t thinking clearly before,” he said, flinching unconsciously away from her.

“I won’t leave you.” Ygritte answered sternly. “If this is about some fool oath ya took—if you’re trying to get rid of me—“

“Of course I’m not trying to get rid of you! I’m trying to protect you!” he cried desperately. “There’s no point in us going into Castle Black for negotiations if we’re both going to die there. And if it all works out, I’ll come get you the moment Mormont accepts my pardon… I won’t leave you. This isn’t about leaving each other,” he said, sighing, “it’s about me not putting you in any more fool danger than I already have… We almost died tonight.”

“Aye, but we didn’t,” she said stubbornly.

“But we almost did.”

“I don’t need anybody to keep me safe.”

“I know you don’t, I’m not asking you to stay because I think you couldn’t handle a fight—I’m asking because I don’t think I can stand to lose you.” Jon said somberly.

“Well what about me? I’m just supposed to let you risk your neck while I sit back and wait? Do ya think it’d be easy for me to lose you?” Her tone was still angry, but she was relaxing as he expressed himself clearer.

_Jon wasn’t trying to desert her. That’s not what was happening._

“I’m not saying it’d be easy for you,” Jon said, his own voice rising in desperation. “But one of us needs to survive. You can’t come to Castle Black—at least not at first—it’s for your own good—I need time to—“

“Gods, Jon, you’re the most stupid man I’ve ever met! Don’t tell me it’s for my own good.” She inhaled shakily, in a calculated attempt to continue calming herself down. They sat in tense silence for a minute or so. Ghost had padded away and was burrowing himself into the snow by the campfire.

_He didn’t want to leave her just as much as she didn’t want to leave him._

Ygritte knew they both worried for each other—knew how unbearable it would be for her to lose him… And vice versa. If the tables were turned, she knew she’d ask him to hang back too.

 _A wildling among crows was certainly in more danger than a former brother would be... Gods, he was right…_

“Maybe you’re right, though…” Ygritte spoke at last. “Maybe I shouldn’t walk straight into the crow’s nest with you as ya beg forgiveness for desertion—but if ya think for one second that I won’t be waitin’ just outside the walls of that castle for your signal, then you’re thicker than ya look. I’m not leavin’ you.”

Jon released a deep breath. “I don’t want you to leave me; I just want you to be safe—as safe as you can be. Alright?”

“Alright,” Ygritte said in response.

He was right, and she hated that she’d lost the argument—submission wasn’t a comfortable place for her. But even more difficult to stomach was the reality that she would have to sit idly by while he risked his life bringing about his pardon.

“I know you don’t need protecting,” he said.

“You better,” she said seriously before smiling as she traced a hand across his stomach; his muscles fluttering under her touch. “And if you care at all about those crow brothers of yours, you better not let them kill you. 'Cause if you don’t come back from that castle, I’ll storm the place meself and take out every last one of them.”

***

**Jon:**

“Deal,” Jon’s smile was warm despite the anxious sorrow behind it.

_They both knew nothing was guaranteed, but at least Ygritte understood his reasoning for asking her to wait—at least she agreed to stay on the sidelines… For now._

His breath hitched as her fingers dipped below his waistband and caressed the soft skin just above his pubic hair, teasing lightly at his curls. Ygritte leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, her tongue darting against his teeth and slipping into the warmth of his mouth. He reacted in like fashion, plunging his own tongue into her mouth and working it around before biting passionately at her bottom lip. Her fingers lingered at his base, and Jon’s filling cock twitched aggressively with anticipation. He moaned and jerked his hips upwards, desperate to find relief in the sensation of pressure against his throbbing member.

Ygritte pulled her hand from his britches abruptly, sliding her fingers down the inside of his thighs through the fabric, grazing his clothed balls agonizingly lightly with her fingertips.

“Ygritte,” Jon groaned breathily.

“Oh? You don’t _always_ get things your way, Jon Snow,” she said vexingly.

His eyelids closed with pained euphoria, his dark lashes pressing tightly together as Ygritte continued to caress his groin, never once touching his erection. He unconsciously shifted his hips towards her, no longer feeling in complete control of his physical reactions.

In response, Ygritte squeezed his testicles with just enough pressure to teeter on the verge of painful, and bent her mouth to his ear. “Stop movin’,” she said in a husky whisper as his body stiffened beneath her grasp. And relaxing her grip then, she began to swirl her tongue around his ear, sucking seductively on his lobe—the wet warmth of her mouth sending a shudder through Jon’s entire body.

_Gods—her mouth—her hands felt so good._

She traced her hand across the front of his breeches and cupped his cock firmly, palming its aching stiffness before tugging his waistband down, freeing his erection—its tip glistening with his excitement.

_He was painfully close already. How was she doing this?_

She placed a wet kiss on his head, licking at its slit and engulfing the crown of his cock in her mouth, her cheeks sucking in and closing around him with deliciously wet warmth. Pressure building in his belly, he clenched his hands into tight fists as he tried to maintain his composure for fear that he’d spill embarrassingly early.

Just then, Ygritte took him further into her mouth and Jon could feel his heart jump to his throat, his breath shortening into rapid pants.

_If she didn’t stop soon, he’d finish like this._

“Ygritte,” he said; fingers curled around her red hair as he tried to push her head away. But she grabbed his hands and pulled him off, simultaneously removing her mouth ever so briefly from his shaft.

“It’s alright,” she cooed lovingly before retaking Jon’s length in her mouth; enveloping him further than before and beginning to bob her head up and down.

Jon’s eyes fluttered and he dug his nails into his palms as he thrust himself lightly in time with her movement. “Ygritte, Ygritte” he hummed unthinkingly, the vein in his neck throbbing with his rapid pulse. And then, Ygritte reached a hand beneath his legs, fondling his balls with salacious gentility.

Suddenly, Jon’s hips jerked upwards and his cock spasmed fiercely, sending wave after wave of blinding pleasure through his body. When he finally began to soften, Ygritte took one final shallow swallow and pulled back, the remainder of his semen spilling across the front of his breeches.

Jon laid his head back into the snow, his heart pounding in his chest. “Gods, Ygritte.” He said. He usually didn’t finish in her mouth—it seemed aggressive and almost disrespectful to him—but he couldn’t deny how amazing that had just felt.

Ygritte tucked his spent cock back into his smallclothes then, and fell on her back next to him, grabbing his hand warmly in hers and rubbing smooth circles across its back with her thumb.

When the blood returned to Jon’s head, he flipped himself over and slid his hand between her legs, beginning to work circular motions with two adept fingers. But she grabbed his wrist, halting his motions.

“There’s time for that later, Jon Snow,” she said airily. “I just want to lie with you for now.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. 

Jon wanted to touch her, but he acquiesced nonetheless when she nodded, putting his head on her chest and grabbing a strand of hair between two spinning fingers. “That was—“ he grinned softly with a mixture of elation and embarrassment. “—I love you.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips sweetly against hers before turning onto his back again, reaching down to tie his laces.

“I love you too—more than anything,” she said. 

They lay quietly together until Ygritte spoke again. “Don’t ever leave me… Please.” Her blue eyes cold with worry.

Jon smiled sadly, his eyebrows knitting together and his heart filling with overwhelming love and fear all at the same time. “I won’t. I never will. I don’t know what will happen at The Wall, but I know I’ll do everythin’ I can to come back to you,” he said. “And if I die, I die with your name on my lips.”

“Don’t die, Jon Snow,” she whispered quietly, her voice scratchy with the vulnerability of the hour.

“If I die, I die… But first I’ll live… First _we’ll_ live. Do you remember when you said that to me?”

She swallowed loudly, seeming to summon strength. “Aye, I do… And I wouldn’t want to be doin’ my livin’ next to anybody else,” she said.

“Me neither. I’m… I’m more than just me when I’m with you,” he said, searching for his words. “It’s like when I was in Ghost, but I’m in you—er—“

Ygritte laughed.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I don’t know—I’m not… I’m not a bleedin’ poet,” he said, laughing along with her. “I just mean that this—“ he gestured around him, “—all this is wrapped up in you and me—wrapped up in _us._ ”

She smiled and snuggled close to him.

“There’s nothing I want more than to have you with me when I face my old brothers again—I just… I just can’t. Do you understand?” he asked.

“I do, Jon Snow” she said. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline-wise, we’re now just about around the middle of season four. Although Karl, Rast, and the other mutineers did kill Mormont and are at Craster’s Keep, for the purposes of this story, Ghost was never taken captive and ended up leaving The North with Sam and Gilly. 
> 
> Additionally, the storyline involving the Night’s Watch attack of Craster’s Keep will be omitted, as Jon’s top priority is no longer ensuring that the mutineers don’t disclose information to the approaching wildling army and instead his focus is on uniting the two sides.


	14. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is so short!

**Ygritte:**

Diffused sunlight skipped across the reflective surface of the freezing lake. Ygritte's thick boots crunched crumbling rocks and dirtied snow as she walked along the shoreline; her arm outstretched as she trailed slim fingers through the surrounding fog. 

They would reach Mole’s Town tomorrow, preemptively agreeing to skirt around its perimeter so as not to expose Jon to any potential early recognition. 

_And it was on to Castle Black for him from there…_

The air was icy—heavy with an arid chill that was somehow lonely in its quality.

“Last time I was on The King’s Road, I was headed to Castle Black for the first time,” Jon spoke suddenly from beside her. “I was travelling with my Uncle Benjen… And Tyrion Lannister,” he said, palming a smooth rock idly in his scarred hand with an expression of distant recollection tugging at the corners of his rosy mouth. The couple had slowed their steps, moving with less urgency as their destination grew closer.

_She wasn’t ready to say goodbye._

“Lannister… Is he related to your southron Queen?” Ygritte asked.

“Mhmm,” Jon nodded, gripping the stone between his thumb and forefinger and hurling it across the lake where it skimmed the surface leaving skittering ripples in its wake. “He’s the Queen’s brother… And a dwarf,” he said, stepping back from the edge of the water and shucking on his gloves. “I like him, though I can’t say as much for the rest of his family… They’re not good people. Gods, if you think I’m Southron, you should meet The Queen. The Lannisters are the richest family in Westeros, but I get the impression they don’t have much love for one other... Or at least, for Lord Tyrion,” Jon finished with a dry smile.

Ygritte shot Jon a grin. “I ‘ave heard of him—The Imp?”

“Right,” Jon said, trudging back to the horses and grabbing their limp reins in his hands. Ygritte meandered up the coastline after him and the two fell into a lethargic pace—the horses trailing slowly behind them. “I don’t think he likes to be called that,” Jon said after a time.

“Who?” Ygritte asked.

“Tyrion Lannister—I don’t think he likes to be called The Imp.”

She paused, thinking. “No… I guess he wouldn’t. What’s he like?”

“He’s clever… He talks a lot,” Jon laughed. “He told me to never forget what I am—to wear it like armor,” he said, sobering.

“And what are you, Jon Snow?”

“I’m a bastard,” he answered with cool reflexivity. 

Ygritte scoffed. “Well that’s not all you are,” she said with a sweet annoyance.

Jon paused, his eyebrows knitting together. “I suppose it’s not,” he said finally.

“So what else—who are you?”

“I’m…“ He faltered. “I’m a man—I’m trying to be a man—trying to be a good person.” Jon laughed weakly. “I’m an oathbreaker. And I’m in love with a wildling girl, but the world is falling apart around us.” He sniffed, the tip of his rough, pink nose scrunching aggressively. “…And I’m cold.” He said, smiling. He wasn’t a wordsmith—and Ygritte knew he’d always fumble his way inelegantly through sentences, but his searching analyses always proved surprisingly poignant. 

Ygritte took his gloved hand in hers. “ _And_ you’re a bastard,” she teased lightly.

Jon chuckled. “Aye, and I’m a bastard… What would you say?”

She looked up quizzically to meet his brown eyes, shadowed under his dark brow. “About who I am? Or who you are?”

“About who I am,” he said, an air of curious nervousness in his voice.

“Jon Snow…” She took a deep breath, reaching inside herself for the appropriate descriptors. “Jon Snow’s a good man… He’s kind and he’s brave… But he’s too hard on himself,” she said, squeezing his hand.

Jon smiled. “And what about you?”

“Me?” she said, her mouth thinning seriously. “I’m a spearwife. I’m kissed by fire. I’m better with a bow than any boy I’ve ever met… Is that good? What would you say… About me?” she asked, almost hesitantly.

“You’re the strongest woman I know—you’re funny and… Unpredictable. You’re one extreme or another… Wildling to the bone… But you’re a lot more sensitive than you’d let most people think.”

“Am not!” she spat, affronted only by the sheer truth of his analysis.

“Look at you now! You’re so sensitive you can’t stand being told you’re sensitive,” Jon grinned.

Ygritte shoved his shoulder playfully.

_Their routine—it was so comfortable—so obvious. It was hard to believe they’d be separated so soon—hard to face that their separation might be forever._

“Well, I might be sensitive,” she smiled, “but I’m still not half as sensitive as you, Jon Snow.”

“Aye, that might be true… Gods, how could I have forgotten to mention how good you are at taking the piss from me,” he said, stopping to hoist himself up on his horse.

Ygritte smiled, and followed in like fashion. 

“We should cover a few more leagues before nightfall,” Jon sighed with reluctance.

“Aye. Lead the way, Jon Snow,” she said, hoping Jon hadn’t noticed the way her voice caught in her throat.


	15. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter doesn't advance the plot any further. I've been struggling to find time/motivation and I'm hoping the updates become slightly longer/less sporadic in the future.

**Jon:**

Resting his back against a fallen log, Jon sifted a stick aimlessly through bluing snow. The feathery steam from his steady breath mingled with the campfire smoke in a dance of swirling smog; rising steadily and disappearing into snowy branches splayed starkly against the night sky. Ygritte sat to his left running fingers along the taut shafts of her arrows and sharpening their points, her mouth twisted tightly in concentration.

Night had fallen hours ago, but neither Jon nor Ygritte slept—the mutual anxiety at their impending goodbye had kept fatigue at bay—replacing tiredness instead with bitter detachment and gnawing nervousness. Jon’s mouth was dry and the twig trembled ever so slightly in his hand as he used its end to prod absentmindedly at frozen tufts of grass beneath the dense snow.

The silence jittered uncomfortably and Jon guessed the sun would rise in only a couple of hours—hints of pale pink were already beginning to spider across the horizon line.

_Mole’s Town tomorrow. Castle Black the next day._

“Ygritte,” Jon said, his voice cracking from a lack of use. “We should try to get some sleep.”

Her brow furrowed and she dropped her arrow weakly to the ground. “I might be past that point, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said wistfully. “Would ya stay up with me… For just a bit longer?” She asked.

Jon bit down on his lip and scooted closer to her, dropping the stick and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He breathed deeply and looked into her eyes as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down—his throat constricting with their collective emotion.

“I’m going to miss you—even if I’m only away one night,” he said, the corner of his mouth pulling into a gentle smile.

Ygritte smiled back with equal tenderness. “Let’s not talk about that just now—let’s talk about something else—anything else.”

“Like what?”

She scrunched her face up—a growingly mischievous grin stretching underneath blue eyes clouding with contemplation. “Tell me about when you first knew that ya fancied me.”

Jon chuckled softly. “It’s a bit—well, it’s embarrassingly early on,” he said, picking up the stick again and smacking it carelessly against his knee.

“What?” she laughed. “Was it the moment you pulled off my hood and realized it were the closest you’d ever been to a girl?”

“Not quite… But it was that first night… When you… When we lay together…”

“I knew it—you couldn’t resist my sweet ginger arse.”

“It wasn’t like that… Well, it was a little,” he laughed, “but it was when you said I was brave. Do you remember that?”

“Aye,” Ygritte smiled fondly. “But I’m pretty sure I also called ya stupid.”

“You did… But I don’t think you really meant it,” Jon said with cheek, before leaning over and pecking a soft kiss on her lips.

Ygritte smiled—Jon’s mouth hovering just against hers. “You know nothin’, Jon Snow… And for the record, I still think you’re a right fool,” she teased, running her thumb along his jaw line. “But Gods, you’re about as brave as they come,” she hummed.

He closed his eyes and kissed her again, his touch lingering a bit longer as his hand ran smoothly across the back of her neck.

Ygritte pulled back, her tongue flicking across the front of her teeth. “Hmmm… What’s the most afraid you’ve ever been?” she asked, grabbing his hand and resting her head on his shoulder.

The question caught Jon a bit off guard, but he didn’t mind. He understood what she was trying to do, and he was thankful for the guided distractions… But fear and anticipation were already weighing heavily on his mind at the moment, and this specific line of questioning only made his stomach churn unpleasantly. 

“The most afraid? Gods, maybe right now?” Jon answered honestly, drawing their mutual attention back to the unpleasant reality. He grimaced slightly as he noticed the anxiety returning to Ygritte’s expression, and quickly racked his brain for a different answer.

_He was scared when he’d almost left Ygritte by that pond._

He wasn’t scared of the arrows—but he was certainly scared to lose her. It was hard to imagine the emptiness he would feel without her—the ache she’d leave behind.

 _Gods, but that’s too much like his first answer—too much like their present situation._

“Er… Well, I definitely had my heart in my throat when you and I were swinging from that rope… When that eagle-eyed prick Orell was trying to cut us loose,” he said. “I was scared then.”

Ygritte nodded, swallowing thickly; a nervous sadness still pooled in her eyes. “How about before I knew ya? What scared Jon Snow as a child?”

He thought a moment. “Old Nan’s tales of giants gave me a fright when I small.”

A tentative grin returned to her face. “Aye, the first time you saw Wun-Wun, I thought you might soil your breeches.”

“I don’t like feeling so small,” he said before scoffing sourly. “Though, I suppose I should be used to it by now… I’ve never been the tallest man in the room.” 

“You’re tall enough, Jon Snow.”

“How about you—what scared you most as a girl?”

Ygritte’s face darkened seriously. “Stories of wights sent a chill through me… I was always afraid that I’d see my mother comin’ into my tent one night all waxy and dead-eyed. It’s the only way I could picture her—I never did know what she looked like.”

“I know the feeling,” Jon said sighing, thinking of his own mother—nothing but a distant idea, a stranger, to him.

“But it was just a silly child’s fear. I knew my father had burned her body, so there was no way I’d ever see her… Dead or alive… Alright, it’s your turn. Ask me a question,” she said.

Jon’s brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t know what to ask,” he said.

“Gods, you’re so boring!” she exclaimed loudly, shoving his shoulder in rough play. “It's downright embarrassing!”

“Alright—well what’s the most embarrassed you’ve ever been, then?” he asked, rolling his eyes and pressing his forehead against hers.

“Well that’s an easy one—“she said, her tongue pushing at the inside of her cheek with reluctant amusement. “I caught me hair on fire once when I was a girl…”

Jon threw his head back, barking out a loud laugh. “So you really were kissed by fire?”

“Oi!” she yelled, smacking him lightly (though carefully avoiding his still bruised nose). “It’s not that funny! I ’ad to walk around with bits of me head all blackened and bald!”

Still laughing, Jon tried to collect himself. “Alright. Alright.”

“I shouldn’t ‘ave told you… Bring it up again, and I swear I’ll snap all your fingers like twigs,” she smiled. “But now it’s your turn.”

He thought for a moment. “Well, as far as things I’m embarrassed by, I let a Wildling girl capture me and then work her way into my bed,” he teased.

“Ah, c’mon. Ya’ve got to do better than that, Jon Snow.”

He took a deep breath. “Sansa… Well… She couldn’t find Lady…” he faltered, a blush creeping across his cheeks. “A few fortnights before I left for Castle Black, I was in my chambers and… I was… Er, using my hands to—“

Ygritte cackled knowingly, leaning back against him. “Your Queen sister walked in on ya stroking your cock?” She laughed, tussling his hair roughly.

“She wasn’t Queen then,” Jon huffed, looking away and trying to hide his own smile.

“Did ya still come?” she laughed louder.

“Shut up,” he said, shaking his head and grinning as he pushed Ygritte off of him.

Ghost rose, unsettled by the commotion as he stalked towards Ygritte—his head down; a low growl forming in his throat.

“Oh you’re alright, ya great beast,” she said, reaching out a hand confidently. Ghost hesitated only a moment before moving closer and allowing Ygritte to stroke his ears. She pet him comfortably for a few minutes before tossing a handful of snow in the air, at which Ghost snapped playfully before sauntering back towards the dying fire.

Jon stood up behind her, straightening his jerkin and bending down to wrap his arms tightly around her shoulders. “We should sleep, Ygritte—just for a little while.”

She nodded, her cheek bobbing against his dark curls. “Just for a little while.”


	16. XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally advancing the plot again—hoping to catch a second wind and post another few chapters within the coming weeks.

**Jon:**

A thick layer of foggy ice ran the length of the riverbank. Jon crouched down, pulling off his gloves and cupping his hands to splash a pool of frozen water across his face. He rubbed his eyes, wincing as his fingers pressed against the yellowing bruises spreading from his shattered nose, and let out a deep breath.

Hearing footsteps crunching through the snow, Jon turned to see Ygritte, her lips pressed tightly into a weak smile as she trudged towards the creek. Behind her, the chestnut horse pawed the ground impatiently, jerking his head and pulling at the rope which secured him to a tree. The gelding’s movement stirred the branches, shaking precariously balanced piles of snow into a violent barrage of snowflakes that fell upon the horse’s back. The beast snorted indignantly and shook again, drawing both Jon’s and Ygritte’s attention towards the scene.

“Alright! I’ll only be a second!” Ygritte shouted at the animal with obvious annoyance. 

Jon stood and walked to Ygritte, wrapping his arms wordlessly around her thin shoulders and pulling her into a tight hug. The furs of her hood tickled his chin and he buried his face in her neck, pressing firm kisses along her collarbone.

“I’ll be back as quick as I can,” she said, running a hand through Jon’s dark hair. 

They were just a league or so outside Mole’s Town, where it was decided Ygritte would visit on her own, seeking information about any Wildling activity from the town’s residents while not exposing Jon to anyone who might recognize the deserter crow. He didn’t want to walk into Castle Black blindly, and although Jon guessed Tormund’s party would have continued on after Jon and Ygritte’s departure, he only hoped they hadn’t yet launched their attack on The Castle.

“Good,” he said, pulling his face back and rubbing his thumb along her cheek. “Find out what you can… And be careful.”

“O’ course I’m gonna be careful,” she said, giving him a look and pulling his hand from her face. Ygritte intertwined her fingers with his own and gave a tight squeeze before dropping his hand and walking towards her readied mount.

Jon watched her ride away with a doleful wave and then stood alone in the clearing, gnawing at his cracked bottom lip and trying not to let his heart sink any lower.

_She’d only be gone for a few hours at most… This time._

He kicked at the snow and walked to the dying fire, picking up Longclaw as he dropped to the ground. Jon ran a sharpening stone across the sword’s blade, emitting a drawn out and musically metallic buzzing; consciously suppressing all thoughts.

Jon couldn’t say how long he sat there rubbing the stone along Longclaw’s length, but only that his actions continued far past the point of utility. The sun had followed an arc across the sky, coming to its peak around midday—its heat softening the surrounding chill and loosening the ice from its frigid grip on the treebranches.

Jon’s mouth was dry and his stomach churned unpleasantly as he pulled himself up and ambled over to his horse smoothing a hand along her muscular neck and inhaling the oaky must of her skin. She rumbled in response and Jon let out a small laugh. “What are we going to do, girl?” he sighed rhetorically.

Suddenly, Jon heard a snapping sound behind him and he whirled around, a smile on his face as he expected to see Ygritte emerging from the trees. Instead, an enormous man lurched forward from the foliage, a menacing grin plastered across face and prominent scars encircling his bald head. He wielded a massive, double-sided ax, its blades gleaming ominously as it sliced through the air.

_Seven hells!_

“Look what we have here!” the man shouted, lunging towards Jon, who swiftly pushed himself from the horse’s side, backtracking through the snow towards his sword which was resting just near the charred remains of the campfire.

Stumbling, Jon grabbed for Longclaw, gripping its hilt with sweaty fingers and drawing the blade through the air to meet the attacking Thenn’s strike just in time. Jon then coiled his body and launched himself forward, his head and shoulder catching the assailant just above his hips; the forceful blow sending him merely two short steps backwards before he spun his ax in hand and rammed its handled knob into Jon’s stomach.

Jon gasped, falling to the ground and steadying himself with one hand splayed deep in the snow; the other hand clutching his contused stomach. Again, the Thenn’s ax was raised above him, its blades eclipsing the sunlight from Jon’s vision just as he managed to roll himself over. The ax was buried in the compressed snow where Jon had been lying only moments before.

“Enough!” came a shout from behind. 

Jon had only a second to register this new voice’s familiarity before he was dragged backwards across the snow by his hair, grunting at the pain in his scalp as he writhed against the heavy hand fisted in his dark curls.

“You’ve got about five seconds to tell me where she is before I split ya from yer balls to yer brains, boy,” the man spat as Jon was hauled to a stand by his jerkin’s collar, coming face to face with Tormund Giantsbane. 

Tormund released his hold on Jon’s hair and instead wrapped thick fingers around his neck, slamming Jon harshly against the rough bark of a tree and shoving the blade of his sword none too gently in between Jon’s legs—its presence resting threateningly against Jon’s clothed genitals.

Jon’s breath hitched and he squirmed in discomfort. “Tormund,” he wheezed, the pressure on his windpipe straining his breath, “she’s still with me—we’re travelling together—she—“

“If you’re together, then why isn’t she standin’ right here, boy?” Tormund growled, spittle flying from his mouth and catching on ragged strands of his dense, red beard where the saliva dangled wildly. He jerked the sword sharply; pushing the flat side of the blade against Jon’s crotch with increasing pressure.

Jon shut his eyes tightly and balled his hands into fists, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth and stifling a pained groan. “Tormund. I’m not—“ he coughed. 

“Tormund, who is this boy to you?” the Thenn asked, approaching the tree with a simmering snarl. 

“This pretty crow betrayed our group after we scaled The Wall—killed one of our own and took another with him,” Tormund answered, his cheeks reddening with anger. “I’ll ask one more time, boy—where is she?”

“She’s in Mole’s Town—she’ll be back before nightfall,” Jon rasped.

The grip on Jon’s throat loosened ever slightly and Tormund leaned closer—the tip of his nose pressed almost against Jon’s as blue eyes stared warningly into brown ones. “For your sake, Jon Snow, I hope you’re right,” he seethed.


	17. XVII

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte slid from her horse, landing deftly in the snow as she readied an arrow in her bow. Creeping quickly through the trees, she kept an eye on the scene at the riverbank. 

Jon sat, his back against a tree; gloomy exhaustion lining his features. When he wasn’t looking dejectedly at his own boots, his eyes were following Tormund’s movements with measured wariness. A few Thenns idled around the campfire, sharpening their weapons and exchanging harsh words. The largest of the men held Longclaw and was examining the sculpted pommel with a greedy gleam in his eyes.

_What’s Tormund doing travelin’ with a bunch o’ Thenns?_

Ygritte raised her bow and walked forward. “Oi!” she shouted, pointing her arrow at Tormund, who wheeled around and grabbed Jon roughly by his cloak, hoisting him up and raising a sword to his neck. Jon scrunched his face into a tight grimace—his hands clutching at Tormund’s grip.

“Well if it isn’t the pretty crow’s wife, come to save him from us uncivilized Free Folk,” Tormund sneered. “How is life south of The Wall treatin’ ya?”

“Let him go,” Ygritte demanded through clenched teeth.

“Or what, girl?”

“Tormund, we both know you won’t hurt me, and ya won’t hurt Jon if you know what’s good for ya. Let him go,” she said again.

“And what makes you so sure I won’t slice my blade clean across his throat?” Tormund asked, pressing the sword’s point against Jon’s bobbing Adam’s apple where a thin line of blood was beginning to trickle down his strained tendons.

“Because I’ve known ya me whole life and I know you’re full of shit,” Ygritte spat, advancing towards Tormund, her arrow still raised. “And like it or not, you’re gonna need us.”

“What would I need with a crow and his traitor lover? Mance’s army is more than 100,000 men—what good will two turncloaks do us?” Tormund said, his hold on Jon not yet wavering. “Don’t tell me Jon Snow is ready to march on Castle Black with us—I won’t be fooled again.”

“We’re not here to help ya attack The Castle!” she yelled with an air of irritation.

“We have to get as many Free Folk south of The Wall as we can,” Jon spoke at last. “Nobody needs to die. Winter is coming and we’ll need everyone when the Long Night falls.”

Grip strong, Tormund pushed Jon out to arm's-length, eyeing him coldly. “Aye, and what would a southroner like you know about winter, Jon Snow?” Tormund asked bitterly.

“I know that when the Walkers do come—every man, woman, and child north of The Wall will die. They’ll die and they’ll become fuel for the dead’s army,” Jon said, his voice firm. “I’m going to Castle Black—to negotiate a passage for the Free Folk.”

Tormund barked out a laugh. “You’re not wrong, boy. The Walkers are moving, but what makes you think you can convince 1,000 crows to let Mance Raider’s army march by unscathed?”

“One hundred,” Jon said. “One hundred men.”

“What?” Tormund asked.

“For fuck’s sake, Tormund, are ya listening?” Ygritte snapped. “Castle Black only has a hundred men!”

Tormund eyed Jon with a stony glare. “This pretty crow was singin’ a different tune back at the Fist of the First Men. What’s to say he’s not lyin’ to me now?”

“He’s not lyin’,” Ygritte said with weary frustration. 

“Tormund,” the large Thenn man said. “Why don’t we just kill them and be on with it? If the boy is right, then taking The Castle should be an easy feat—and I’m hungry for the taste of crow.”

Struggling in Tormund's hold, Jon twisted as best he could, facing Styr with a hoarse shout of anger. “Aye, you could take The Castle, nobody’s denyin’ that—but it wouldn’t be easy. The Castle is built for defense and even one hundred brothers of The Watch could hold you off for a time. Both sides would lose good men and valuable time. This isn’t the war we should be fighting. Don’t you see that?” Jon asked—his voice wavering between strength and desperation.

“The boy is soft—let’s snap his neck and be done with it. Besides, I’ll never trust a crow,” the Thenn said, turning towards Tormund.

“Careful, Thenn. You so much as touch 'im, and I’ll put an arrow through your skull quick as ya can blink,” Ygritte shouted, pivoting her stance.

“Watch it, girl. Styr is fightin’ for Mance—maybe you remember what it was like to fight for freedom—to fight for The King beyond the Wall?” Tormund growled.

“Oh I’m still a free woman, Tormund. Jon Snow’s not tryin’ to take that away from usu. Nobody expects the Free Folk to bend the knee for a Southron king. Hells, they don’t even have a king! Every person in the south kneels for some different lord or lady.”

“So ya think those crows will let us through for nothin’?” Tormund asked, a hint of submission creeping into his voice.

“It won’t be for nothing,” Jon said tiredly. “Lord Commander Mormont is a good man—I think I can make him see reason. He won’t ask that you kneel… Only that you fight with us when the real war begins.”

Tormund relaxed his grip then, pushing Jon away. Jon rubbed at his neck and took a few unsteady steps before straightening and looking to Tormund. And Ygritte couldn’t help but grin at the way his chest puffed out, though she doubted the others noticed.

“And how will you convince this Lord Mormont?” Tormund challenged. “I don’t know much about crows, but I do know you lot take those vows seriously. Do you think he’ll let ya walk right in—your cock still sleek from her cunt—and be moved by your words, boy?”

“He’s got a pardon from his sister—Queen of Winterfell,” Ygritte said sturdily. “ _And_ he’s right about what’s comin’, Tormund—even you can see that.”

“I’m not saying it’s a foolproof plan,” Jon spoke. “But it’s the best I’ve got. First thing tomorrow I’ll walk through the gates. If things go as planned, I’ll open those same gates for you by the evening. And then we can go and speak with Mance—together.”

“And if the plan doesn’t work, Jon Snow?” Tormund inquired darkly.

Jon took a deep breath. “If I’ve not returned for you by nightfall, then you’ll have to speak to Mance on your own—Mance is an honorable man and he wants his people to live. Convince him to ask for peaceful passage.”

“Talk to Mance? Mance is still in the north! Do you expect us to shout your plans over The Wall?” Tormund asked furiously.

“Head to The Nightfort—there’s a tunnel that will take you under The Wall,” Jon said. “You’ll reach Mance within a matter of days.”

“An underground passage?” Tormund said angrily. “That would ‘ave been nice to know before we lost good men on that climb.” 

The group stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment—the tension palpable.

“If your Crow King won’t listen to one of his own, why would he listen to Mance?” Tormund asked, his voice slowly growing more agreeable.

“Because Mance has an army behind him,” Ygritte said before Jon could speak. “It needn’t come to killin’—but if it does, the Free Folk have the advantage.”

_Compassion wasn’t weakness—Jon had shown her that, but it certainly helped that The Wildlings were backed by an army of 100,000 men._

“Why wait for all these words and tunnels?” Styr snarled. “We should take The Castle now—Mance will light his fire any day. We don’t need this baby crow or his brothers.”

“Aye, you might not need me, but if The Watch stands, it gives us all a better chance,” Jon said. “We have maesters and knowledge tracing back hundreds of thousands of years. You don’t know the Seven Kingdoms. The Free Folk will need The Watch on their side—The Watch can offer protection.”

Styr stepped towards Jon and pressed the eye of his ax against Jon’s sternum. “We can protect ourselves, crow.”

“I’m not a crow anymore,” Jon said dryly.

“Then what are ya?” Tormund asked.

“He’s _here_ ,” Ygritte said, tensing her hold on her taut bowstring and swiveling it in Styr’s direction. “That’s what matters now.”

“Tormund, this boy crow shows up, and you expect us to stop killing men who've been killing us for generations?” Styr seethed, turning from Tormund to Ygritte and prodding Jon sharply in his ribcage.

“If we want to survive, we have to work together! All of us!” Jon shouted, grabbing the ax’s head and pushing back against the pressure.

Tormund shook his head and growled angrily. “I hate to say it, but the boy is right. I’ve no great love for you Thenns, but the Free Folk are stronger now than we’ve ever been and it’s all because of Mance. We’re stronger together than we are apart…”

_Finally! Tormund is such a great, stubborn brute of a man._

“…The Long Night’s coming and Jon Snow speaks the truth,” Tormund finished.

“I’m disappointed in you, Tormund,” Styr growled lowly. “And I’ve had enough of this. I won’t fight alongside a crow!” With that, he wrenched the ax from Jon’s hold and hoisted it above his head, preparing to strike.

Without pause, Ygritte let her arrow fly; sending the shaft straight through Styr’s head—its bloodied tip coming to a halt and poking out just above his left ear. The great Thenn’s body stiffened and he fell to the ground; dead. 

“If anybody else has a problem with the plan, let me know now! I’ve got another arrow for them!” Ygritte shouted, wielding her bow around wildly.

A stunned silence pervaded the woods. Ygritte took deep breaths and stalked towards Tormund. “It took ya long enough to come round,” she hissed.

Tormund looked at her with an icy coldness before turning to Jon. “I hope you know what you’re doin’, boy.”


	18. XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some "bonding" before the split.
> 
> *includes light bondage

**Jon:**

Jon kicked at the snow, toeing through ashen frost and scraping his boot across the ground to unearth hard rime and rock. Crouching, he picked up an icy twig and flicked it away wearily. “We can put our furs down here,” Jon said, gesturing towards the pelts in Ygritte’s hands. “No fire tonight.”

Their party had stopped just a league from Castle Black; settling among dense trees and bramble just as the sun had dipped beyond the horizon, casting a haze of orange light caroming across the landscape as it disappeared.

Ygritte handed Jon the wrappings with a tired grunt of affirmation. He tweaked the corner of his mouth in a languid smile and smoothed the furs with slow strokes of his gloved hands, turning as heavy footsteps approached from behind.

“If I wake up in the morning, and I find these furs empty, I swear to all the Gods that I’ll hunt you both down and kill ya slow,” Tormund said, angrily flickering his tongue across his teeth.

Jon met Tormund’s glare and rose from his kneeling position; his jaw set with rigid tenacity. “You know what’s at stake, Tormund—we’ll be here in the morning.”

Jon would rouse with the dawn and proceed to The Wall. After some deliberation it had been decided that Tormund would accompany him to the castle as a representative of the wildling perspective (though Jon expected it had more to do with Tormund wanting to ensure Jon’s adherence to the plan). Ygritte would remain with the rest of the Free Folk; her subsequent actions proceeding accordingly.

Tormund said nothing; a combative raise of his eyebrows serving as a response before averting his stare to Ygritte. She stood glowering with her arms folded tensely across her chest, pulsing her tongue against the inside of her cheek angrily as she looked back at Tormund.

The ginger man took a deep breath and turned to Jon. “Sunrise,” he said with rough finality.

As Tormund walked away, Ygritte dropped her arms exasperatedly. “Do you think he’ll ever stop sulking?” she asked, rolling her eyes—her scowl softening. “Gods, he’s poutin’ more than you do.”

Jon shifted his eyes towards her, tilting his head dissentingly as his mouth tugged itself into a reluctant smile. “And you’re not pouting?” he asked rhetorically. “I thought you might chew your tongue off in front of him,” he said, poking his own tongue from between his plump lips—his downturned smile stretching with the teasing gesture.

Ygritte smirked in mild surprise, her eyes sparkling with laughter before narrowing seductively. “Oh ya wouldn’t want that, Jon Snow,” she said. “Ya’d surely miss all the things I could for you… With my tongue.”

Jon blushed—a cautiously eager grin spanning his features. “I surely would,” he hummed, his lips reddening as his brow furrowed. Stepping towards her, Jon grabbed Ygritte by the collar and pulled her into a wistful kiss.

_One final night together…_

“I’ll miss everything about you,” he said, unlatching from her mouth and pressing his forehead against hers. The rounded end of his nose brushed against hers—chapped and pink from the cold. Jon inhaled Ygritte’s scent and closed his eyes, his eyebrows knitting together as he leaned back and reopened them to survey her lusting gaze.

Ygritte reached out, grabbing a fistful of his dark hair and crashing her lips again against his, evoking a moan from deep within Jon’s throat. Their emotions manifesting into desperate thrusts and flickers of their tongues, familiar movements and expected strokes were made novel by the rawness of the night. 

Jon smiled complacently amidst the kiss and wrapped his arms around Ygritte, sending them both tumbling to their furs breathlessly. She giggled and rolled onto her back, weaving graceful fingers across the fleshy pads cresting at the base of his coarse palm.

Jon moved with her, propping himself onto his elbows and reaching under her tunic. He skipped his fingers across the bony troughs of her ribcage, taking her breast in his hand and rubbing a thumb around the rosy disc of her areola before circling her nipple into an erect point.

He exhaled tenderly into her mouth—his breath shuddering as the tip of his swelling cock grazed Ygritte’s core through her breeches. Jon’s abdomen quivered and he couldn’t help but press his groin against hers with necessity—his erection already straining hot and weighty between his legs. Ygritte let out a responsive groan, her voice foggy with thirst.

Jon pushed his hands along the curve of her torso, dragging her chemise with the glide of his fingers and pulling it over her head. He dropped his own head and bit softly into the cleft of her neck, sucking lovingly and swirling his tongue along the creamy contour of her sharp collarbone. Jon began to trail kisses to her left breast, softly encompassing its peak with his mouth before burrowing in between her legs; hooking his thumbs beneath her smallclothes and yanking them down as he went.

He dipped a hand and parted Ygritte’s folds before covering her mound with his hot mouth, his tongue slipping inside her while his thumb worked adroitly at the bundle of nerves brushing against his nose. He inhaled deeply, his cock beginning to throb on the verge of pain as her sweet musk filled his nostrils.

As Jon buried his face deeper into her core, Ygritte writhed beneath him—her hips jerking in time with the lapping of his tongue until she was squirming arhythmically; caught in the throws of an orgasm Jon drew out with a skillful hand as he pressed attentive kisses along the slope of her stomach.

When Ygritte stilled, Jon fell back on his knees and reached into his breeches, grabbing his eager member with a hand still sleek from Ygritte’s release.

“No let me, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said airily, pulling herself into a sitting position and pushing him down as she reached towards his crotch. Jon released his grip; the sudden lack of contact enough to elicit an audible whine as he busied himself with removing his tunic. The furs scratched at his bare shoulders.

Ygritte undid his laces with deft fingers and shucked his britches down his hips. His cock sprang free—hard and hot—bobbing flush against his flat stomach; its smooth tip already glistening with rich beads of moisture. She grabbed Jon’s length with a firm fist, tugging the flesh taut along his throbbing shaft and squeezing her fingers tightly as her pull culminated at its tip.

_One tug and he was seconds away from spilling._

Thumbing the head, Ygritte spread the pre-cum along his length, twisting her hand down to his base. Jon let out a strangled cry and arched into her touch as she pumped her grip swiftly upwards another time.

_He’s so close._

The tip of his cock was flushed pink and Jon’s breath caught in his throat, his stomach fluttering as Ygritte squeezed tightly, sending him over the edge. He came thickly into her hand and across his belly in pulsing waves. 

Ygritte smiled, leaning over him—her hands splayed just above his shoulders—and pressed a forceful kiss against his mouth.

***

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte lay against him drawing her fingertips lightly along the sparse hair sprinkled across his pectoral muscles as Jon absently stroked her hair in return. She could feel his heart thumping in his chest—the fullness of its steady echoing stirring a smile to her face.

Branches heavy with snowfall drooped to the ground, their bows weeping around the couple who held each other tightly in a cherished embrace.

A lazy grin tilted across Jon’s face as his arm stilled across Ygritte’s pale shoulders. She loved his smile—only Jon Snow could manage to appear both smiling and frowning at the same time. His eyes gleamed under dark lashes and his lips creased with amused questioning.

“Did Tormund ever really fuck a bear?” he asked.

Ygritte dipped her head playfully and rolled her eyes. “O’ course he never fucked a bear. Gods, if I have to listen to him drone on about that bear he never fucked one more time…” she said, leaving her resolution unfinished. “You best hope he finds something else to talk about on your walk to The Wall.”

“I don’t imagine we’ll be doing much talking,” Jon said with a brisk laugh. “I’m not much in his good graces right now, am I?”

She shook her head, responding with a peck of her lips against his and sweet smile.

“I can’t say I’ll miss his conversation too much,” Jon said.

Ygritte laughed. “Aye, your _manly_ talks always left you quakin’ in your boots.”

“I wasn’t quaking…” Jon snapped lightly. She cocked an eyebrow testily in his direction, and he conceded with a quick huff of breath. “But, I suppose his... Er... _advice-giving_ would oft end with him clapping a hand on my back hard enough to send my knees buckling… A bit,” he admitted, chuckling grudgingly.

Ygritte laughed. “Wha’ advice could Tormund possibly ‘ave given to ya anyway?” she asked, her face contorting with incredulous amusement. “Ya may not be the biggest man I’ve ever had inside me—“

“—Alright,” Jon snorted with measuredly stern submission.

“—But nobody else gives that Lord’s kiss o’ yours… And your cock—” she said pausing to graze her fingers in between his legs where she wrapped them lithely around his flaccid member “—is certainly the prettiest cock I’ve ever seen,” she finished, loosely pumping his hypersensitive shaft into a state of semi-hardened arousal.

Jon bucked his hips helplessly into her touch. “Thanks… I think,” he said with a shuddering breath, his cheeks flushing. She felt her own lust stir warmly between her legs.

_Gods, she loved him like this._

Getting an idea and biting down on her bottom lip teasingly, Ygritte reached around the furs and pulled a hide strip from her pack. She rolled over, straddling Jon’s hips as she grabbed his hands and wrapped the leather tightly around his wrists. Raising them over his head, she then secured the strip to a snowy tree root.

“Ygritte,” Jon said, an apprehensive grin softening his face as he lightly tested the restraints, “what are you doing?”

She slid back against him, rubbing her sex along his cum-stained belly. “Oh I don’t want ya goin’ anywhere, Jon Snow… Not now—“ she pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw “—not ever,” she finished, tonguing lightly at his nipple.

_Don’t think about the morning._

His cock, now fully erect, jounced heatedly against her backside, and Ygritte slipped down further, grabbing his manhood and giving it several slow pumps before kissing the tip delicately.

Jon mewled, and she circled the crown of his cock with her tongue, sucking lewdly. With her palms spread across the smooth skin traversing his stomach and hipbones, she could feel his muscles jerk as his breath quickened. “Ygritte—“ he gasped desperately.

She released him from her mouth with a moist pop and met his gaze quizzically. “You alright…? Is this alright?” she asked, gesturing to his ties. She had never done this before—bound his hands—and she didn’t wish to make him uncomfortable.

He nodded, his breath coming in sharp pants. “Yes… Just go slower… Please… I can’t—“ She bent down, running her tongue across the underside of his shaft and gripping its tip tightly in her hand.

Jon whimpered audibly, his eyes shut tightly and his back arching from the furs as she stroked him. “Ygritte!” he cried. “Stop. Stop,” he choked. “I want to—“ his whole body shook under her touch “—I want to be inside you—but I won’t be able to if—you—if you—“

_Gods, seeing him so frenzied—so desperate—was bringing her close without him even having to touch her._

Her hand stopped its movement, Jon’s cock still throbbing violently in her grip, and she let go, leaning back onto her knees and surveying the landscape of his prone form.

Straddling Jon’s hips and raising her own (careful not to brush against his erection) she pushed herself forward and engulfed his mouth in a passionate kiss. Then, working her tongue around his, Ygritte slid her sex again along the arch of his torso—her clitoris grazing the bones of his ribcage; sending salacious shivers through her core. A heat—like milk and honey tumbling sweetly together—churned wantonly in between her legs.

She caressed the hairs on his chin—digging fingertips into the sleek musculature of his shoulders as she writhed against him. After about a minute, his cock bumped against her rear end and she canted her hips responsively, sliding over the length of his hot member with considerable firmness before guiding him inside of her.

A guttural groan erupted from the back of Jon’s throat and Ygritte began to ride his hips—his body filling hers so comfortably—so obviously. Jon was humming rhythmically with her movements and after only a dozen thrusts, they peaked together—his warm semen spurting within her as their bodies shuddered in unison. Ygritte let out a hoarse cry as she fell back onto his chest, her flushing cheek pressed tightly against his.

Without warning, a mass of snow fell onto her back and Ygritte jerked in surprise, causing Jon to hiss in pain as his extremely overstimulated member was moved so abruptly within her. She looked up angrily, expecting to see a recently unburdened branch swaying just above them. Instead, she saw another mound of snow hurtle through the air from several trees away.

Turning around furiously, she saw Tormund kneeling on his furs; another snowball packed into a tight fist. “If you don’t get off of him, girl, I’ll be throwing these all night!” he yelled through clenched teeth. “Your frantic ruttin' is keepin’ us all up and I need my rest… So does the boy!” Tormund finished, plopping himself angrily back onto his pelts in the distance.

Ygritte looked down at Jon’s mortified expression as it contorted into something else. And misinterpreting the brewing emotion, for a moment, she feared he might cry. But, before she could convey concern, Jon broke into peals of laughter—his chest heaving with deep breaths.

“Shhh!” she laughed in return, pressing a warm hand against his mouth. “I don’t want Tormund to throw anything else over here!”

Jon silenced himself and Ygritte removed her hand after his breathing calmed. He smiled sweetly in return. “You’re going to have to untie me, you know,” he said. “I promise I won’t go anywhere—not yet anyway.”

With a sheepish (by Ygritte standards) grin, she reached out and undid the strip from his wrists, rolling to her side and nesting into the warmth of his body as he wrapped her in his arms; his fingers weaving languidly through her ginger curls.

“I like to hear ya laugh… even if it did mean taking a snowball from that giant grouch,” she said, jerking her head in Tormund’s direction and running the leather strip leisurely between her fingers. “You seemed to like this,” she purred, waving the material gently for him to see.

He took a deep breath. “Aye. I did.” His smile was timid. “Though I did miss touching you.”

“You’re a proper lover,” she laughed, snuggling against him.

Jon pulled her closer, spooning his knees around hers. “I love you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck.

“I love you too, Jon Snow.”

_He would be gone in the morning…_


	19. XIX

**Jon:**

Jon’s tongue was dry and his stomach squirmed with nauseous nervousness. He and Tormund had been weaving their way through progressively sparse patches of thick spruces since daybreak. The Wall loomed silent and foreboding above them.

The wind whipped through bald branches, swirling Jon’s curls into straightened, sodden strands that plastered across his forehead in an icy film. He walked with a grimace; his brow creased in determination and anxiety. Mouth still tingling from the memory of Ygritte’s goodbye kiss, Jon ran his tongue along his coarse lips as though to preserve her presence.

Ghost traipsed steadily by Jon’s side stopping every now and then to snap at blustering clouds of loose pine straws. To his right, Tormund’s strong footsteps managed to radiate subtle resentment and Jon rolled his eyes angrily as he continued forward. He couldn’t say what awaited him at Castle Black, and as apprehensive as he was about his future, as devastated as he was to leave Ygritte, and as guilty as he felt for abandoning The Watch in the first place, Jon Snow was doing the best he could—and that was good enough.

He still struggled with his own moral code—a combination of honor for honor’s sake and honoring those he loved—those he felt obligated to protect. Not for the first time, Jon wished Robb were still alive—he would certainly know something about juggling love and duty.

_Hells, some might say Robb’s staunch dedication to his own love had cost him The North—cost him his life. If Robb could go back, would he do things differently?_

And here Jon Snow was, Robb Stark’s bastard half-brother, returning to The Wall; a crow deserter with nothing but a hazy plan to save thousands of men through compromise and reasoning despite having thrown all his vows and trustworthiness to the wayside many fortnights ago.

_Can a man truly balance both honor and love?_

Shaking his head, Jon laughed sourly under his breath.

_He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t try._

“Somethin’ funny, boy?” Tormund spat.

_For fuck’s sake._

Jon stopped in his tracks and eyed Tormund as he collected himself. “What do you want to say, Tormund? Should we just get this out of the way before we step through those gates?” Jon said, pointing heatedly towards the looming Castle and closing the space between the two men.

_Gods, he was exhausted enough defending his decisions to himself, let alone to everybody else._

Tormund set his jaw firmly and met Jon’s stare, though he did not speak.

Jon took a deep breath. “I never asked you to come with me,” he said after a spell, cocking his hands in mild exasperation. “I’m not even asking you to trust me—but trust that if we don’t do this—if we don’t do what we can to unite our armies, your children won’t be around long enough to have children of their own,” he finished, trudging onwards. Behind him, Jon heard Tormund’s footsteps resume grudgingly.

“The funny thing is, Jon Snow, I do trust ya.” Tormund spoke, catching up and shaking his head in almost angered disbelief. “And after what we’ve been through… Do ya think I’m a fool?”

“No more than I am,” Jon said, tweaking his mouth into a wearied smile and relaxing his shoulders.

“What made you come back, boy?” Tormund asked after a few minutes.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Jon said with tired seriousness.

Tormund nodded. “You’re a good lad,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder roughly and striding past Jon to the edge of the tree line. A placid growl hummed through Ghost’s throat as the wolf followed Tormund.

Jon joined them. The wooden gate stood ahead, snow dusting the base of its dark panels. He could just make out the silhouette of a brother lazily traversing the length of the entrance’s overpass.

“Alright,” Jon said, as much to himself as to his companions, before stepping across the forest’s threshold and approaching the gate, his cloak stirring up a trail of powdery snow in his purposeful wake.

As he got closer, Jon looked to the overhanging footbridge. He recognized the gate’s guard—his coppery beard and burly build leaving the man’s identity unmistakable.

“Grenn!” Jon shouted, his face easing into a toothy grin.

“Jon!” Grenn’s astonished stare flickered from anxious to excited. “You’re—I—let me open—Seven Hells, Jon! What are you doing here?” Jon could hear the gears whirring as the gate rose amidst a series of metallic clanks and creaks.

Jon looked over his shoulder and nodded for Tormund before being wrapped in a sincere hug by his former brother.

“Gods—I heard your sister had sent a letter but I didn’t expect you to show up…” Grenn said nervously despite his obvious happiness at their reunion. “And with a Wildling?” he said, gesturing towards Tormund.

“Aye—Grenn, this is Tormund—Tormund; Grenn,” Jon gave the introductions with an absurd air of weak formality.

“You sure you want to be here? Grenn asked.

Jon responded with a shrug of his shoulders and a dry smile before exhaling loudly—his cheeks puffing and deflating exaggeratedly with his breath.

“Thorne isn’t going to be—“ Grenn started.

“I’m not here to talk to Thorne,” Jon said rather roughly. “I want to speak to Lord Commander Mormont.”

Grenn’s winced sadly. “So no one’s told you?” he said. “Jon… Mormont is dead.”

Jon’s stomach dropped and he shut his eyes as the sickening reality crept over his skin. Tormund shifted his stance discontentedly.

“There was a mutiny… And—“ Grenn continued.

_He’d counted on Mormont being here._

“Who’s The Commander now?” Jon asked with blunt urgency.

“No one… strictly speaking, but Ser Alliser has been running things more or less. Maester Aemon does what he can, but Thorne’s got quite a following—he and Janos Slynt.”

“Who?” Jon asked.

“Lord Janos is—“

“Lord Janos is what?” a man Jon did not recognize suddenly spoke, emerging from behind Grenn and resting a thick hand threateningly on his shoulder.

Jon immediately got a sour taste in his mouth.

Grenn faltered. “Lord Janos, this is Jon Snow,” he said with a tone of obvious reverence for Jon.

The man’s beady eyes clouded darkly. “Jon Snow? The bastard son of a traitor… Turned traitor himself?” He laughed. “Have you come back to be hanged?”

Grenn swallowed audibly. “He’s not—“ Grenn began before Jon cut him off, throwing an arm against his chest and stepping forward.

Several more brothers had joined the ‘welcoming’ committee; some of which Jon recognized vaguely.

“My father wasn’t a traitor,” Jon said through clenched teeth. “And nor am I… I’ll admit to my transgressions, but I came back to help The Watch—and I didn’t come all this way to be stopped at the gate by some failed Lord.”

Slynt barked a forced laugh, looking around with simpering disbelief as though to garner some support from the surrounding men. “How dare you speak to me that way! I commanded the City Watch of King’s Landing, boy,” he said.

“And now you’re here… You must not have been very good at your job,” Jon fired back, his brow furrowed with sarcastic pity.

Slynt’s lips trembled and he tugged at his jerkin with a flustered air of false dignity. “Fetch Ser Alliser, Olly” he snapped suddenly at a boy to his side. Olly jumped nervously before scampering off.

The air sparked with tension for several moments before Slynt spoke again. “You betray the honor of your sworn brothers, Jon Snow. Yet you return with a savage by your side?”

“Tormund’s here to represent the Free Folk. He—“

The small crowd parted. “Lord Snow, welcome back.” Thorne sneered, stepping into the mix with the boy at his heels. “Give me one good reason we shouldn’t have you executed right now.”

“If you execute me now, Ser Alliser, Mance Rayder’s army of 100,000 wildlings will climb over The Wall and kill every man, woman, and child in The Gift.” Jon said soberly. “I trust you received my sister’s raven… You know why I’m here and you know I’ve been pardoned. I know you don’t like me, but you have to listen to me—you all have to listen to me,” Jon finished, making fleeting eye contact with several of the men standing in the circle of brothers.

“Your sister? Queen of the North? She’s done well for herself. But up here at The Wall, we don’t concern ourselves with the politics of the Seven Kingdoms,” he said bitterly. “Aye, I got her note… And I burned her note. Lord’s son or not, boy, you’re a deserter—a deserter who’s turned ally to the wildlings—to the enemy,” he said, jerking his glare towards Tormund. Jon noticed the boy—Olly—had a similar look of angry disgust on his face.

Tormund scoffed. “My people could take this castle in one night,” he said. “It’s Jon Snow here who’s askin’ for yer lives to be spared—do yourselves a favor and listen to him. The Free Folk will make it over your wall one way or another.”

Thorne looked cynically at Tormund. “So am I to believe that you’re allied with him out of the goodness of your wildling heart?”

“No—to be honest, I don’t give two shits whether all you crows live or die, but the boy speaks truth when he says our forces are stronger together than they are apart. Offer my people safe passage and you crows can keep yer castle.” Tormund answered.

“And if we don’t?” Slynt countered.

“Then every last miserable crow dies.”

“Look,” Jon said, cringing inwardly at Tormund’s choice of words. “The White Walkers are coming. If the Free Folk—“

“The Free Folk?” Slynt interrupted. “Listen to him. He even talks like a wildling!”

“Aye I talk like a wildling! I ate with the wildlings. I climbed The Wall with the wildlings. I—I laid with a wildling girl. But this isn’t about how I talk—Winter is coming!”

“So you admit to breaking your vows before you even deserted?” Thorne said; his eyebrow arched skeptically. “And then you march in here shouting the words of your traitor father’s house, expecting us to listen to you—your brothers who you betrayed? How can we be sure you’re not just a wildling spy?”

“The boy betrayed the Free Folk too,” Tormund said firmly. “Just yesterday I was ready to cut Jon Snow in half—but he talks sense. He doesn’t act for my people, and he’s not actin’ for yers. But he’s actin’ for the good of all of us.”

“No matter who he acts for, Lord Snow is a deserter, and he knows the law.” Thorne said.

“Ser Alliser!” You—“ Jon growled, with one final attempt at reasoning. But it was too late.

“Take them to the cells!” Thorne yelled. “And someone kill that beast of his.”

Jon reached out and grabbed Ghost by the rough of his neck, vaguely aware of Tormund drawing his ax and beginning to swing wildly. “Ghost, go!” Jon shouted, pushing his wolf furiously towards the distant tree line and unsheathing Longclaw.

Ghost trotted a few steps before eying Jon with glowing, red eyes. “Go!” he shouted again, kicking snow in the wolf’s direction and whirling around to point his sword at the few brothers who were hesitantly approaching him.

A pimply boy stepped forth, whom Jon disarmed with a single blow, elbowing the kid in the ribs and shoving him angrily to the ground.

He flicked his hair from his eyes and looked towards Grenn. “Get Maester Aemon!” Grenn stood indecisively for a moment before grunting in torn anger and running off towards the Maester’s Quarters.

Thorne and three other men had surrounded Tormund who was spinning frantically—hacking about with all his strength. He managed to swipe his ax across an older brother’s shin just as Thorne let an arrow fly from his crossbow; catching Tormund solidly in the shoulder. The giant man yelled in agony and dropped to his knees.

_Seven Hells._

Jon ran to Tormund’s side, using his shoulder to ram one brother from his path and jutting the hilt of Longclaw swiftly into the nose of another—effectively incapacitating both men without seriously wounding either.

Jon jumped in front of Tormund and raised his sword to Ser Alliser. “Enough—take us to the cells!” he panted. “No one needs to die right now.”

_With any luck, Maester Aemon would convince the men of The Watch to hear him out—to grant him a trial._

Thorne scowled coldly at Jon, but lowered his weapon. However, just as Jon began to drop his sword in response, he heard the buzz of a bowstring and felt a sharp pain in the meat of his right thigh—just brushing his hipbone. Crying out, Jon stumbled several steps and closed his fist around the hilt of the arrow jutting from his already bloodying breeches.

He looked up to see Janos Slynt smirking triumphantly, a bow still held in his outstretched hand.

_Fucker._

Jon snapped. Blinded by rage and adrenaline, he leapt furiously forward, cocking his elbow and driving a strong fist straight into Slynt’s graying, fleshy face.

The man crumpled to the dirt spluttering—his eyes watering. Jon’s chest heaved with angry breaths and he threw Longclaw to the ground just as several pairs of arms wrapped around him, dragging him from the scene.

Jon’s heartbeat pounding fiercely in his ears, he barely registered the shouts from around him as he was manhandled through the castle.

_Where was Sam? Or Pyp?_

He was thrown roughly into a dark cell alongside Tormund, who must had fared far worse than Jon had originally thought—two more arrows stuck brutally from his side and the man lay moaning in the corner.

Jon limped over and shimmied himself down the frigid wall with a groan, trying not to push the arrow any deeper as he struggled to relieve the tension in his hip.

“It was never a great plan, Jon Snow,” Tormund said through deep breaths. “But ya’d ‘ave been a bastard not to try it.”

Jon laughed bitterly and leaned his head back against stones, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed deeply and shut his eyes, thinking of Ygritte.

Despite all Ser Alliser thought—all Jon’s inner turmoil—all his self-doubt and worry—all his grief… Jon really only had one ally—Ygritte.

_And maybe that was the price a man paid for kind-heartedness and diplomacy?_

After all, diplomacy never truly pleased either party. In the end, no matter what he said to help save as many lives as he could, it seemed that Ygrrite would be the only person to ever support him fully. And Gods, what he would give to hold her right now. 

***

**Ygritte:**

The sun was just beginning to peak through the clouds. Ygritte sat tapping her fingers furiously against her bouncing knee. Ghost had returned hours ago, but there was yet no sign of Jon or Tormund, and they had now been gone for an entire day. With a shaking hand, she tousled the wolf’s fur gently.

_Something went wrong—they’re not coming back. It’s over._

Ygritte’s eyes welled with hot tears. She blinked them back and rubbed her arm roughly across her pink nose, sniffling loudly.

Standing up, she stalked savagely through the snow towards the rest of the sleeping wildlings.

“Oi!” she yelled with a raspy voice. “We’re off to The Nightfort. The sooner we get there, the sooner we reach Mance. And the sooner we reach him, the sooner we get ta killin’ crows.”

_She will burn their castle to the ground._


	20. XX

**Jon:**

Jon watched the sun set through the bars of the dungeon’s sole window—the icy sky morphing from shades of cerulean to amber before plunging the cell into darkness for the second night in a row. Tormund lay sprawled across the ground, snoring loudly—much as he had spent the last 36 hours.

Since the outset of their imprisonment the day before—and aside from two brief appearances by Maester Aemon (in which he offered Jon a few comfortingly paternal words while tending to the two prisoner’s wounds)—Jon and Tormund had been left undisturbed. The solitude gnawed at Jon, and despite the maester’s thin reassurances, he found his spirits slipping lower as the moon arced its way across the night’s tableau.

Jon sat with his back to the wall—his breeches bunching unlaced around the thick bandaging of his hip-wound as he fiddled about with their ties aimlessly. 

_What a proper mess._

Shaking his head frustratedly, he kneaded his worried brow with cool, calloused fingers.

Jon lifted his gaze apprehensively as the heavy door creaked open from the far side of the room, sending musty lamplight splashing across the steel bars of the large cell. He straightened his posture, craning his neck to identify the owner of the approaching footsteps.

“Jon?” a voice trembled as the swaying lantern was hoisted to reveal a round, rosy face.

“Sam!” Jon staggered to his feet, fisting the fabric of his britches and hoisting them in time with his tottering ascension before limping towards his friend. Despite Jon’s pain, a smile melted across his face—his rough cheeks cresting beneath the warmth that pooled in his dark eyes. “What are you doing here?” he rasped quietly, steadying himself against the metal bars with his free hand.

“Well,” Sam shrugged with modest chutzpa, “I couldn’t very well let you go hungry.” He settled the lantern to the ground and pulled a heel of bread from his cloak, passing it through the bars.

Jon took the bread, turning it in his hand as his stomach growled audibly. He’d not eaten since dawn, when Maester Aemon had brought two bowls of meager broth along with his morning visit.

“I have one for him too,” Sam smiled, gesturing towards Tormund as he took another hunk of bread from his pockets.

“Thank you, Sam,” Jon smiled before hastily biting off a sizable chunk.

“Well…” Sam’s hands flounced awkwardly about, “where have you been? For a long time, we all thought you were dead—that is, until your sister’s raven arrived,” he said—hesitation clawing obviously at his characteristically cheery disposition.

Jon exhaled between bites. “It’s a long story.”

“But the letter—you mean to convince the brothers to let The Wildling army pass safely by… Into The Seven Kingdoms?” Sam asked, the timber of his voice rising.

Jon nodded solemnly. “Aye—I know many of the men won’t like it, but Mance’s army will cross The Wall with or without The Watch’s permission. They march on The Castle any day now—100 men won’t hold off 100,000 for more than a night or so and winter is coming, Sam. The Seven Kingdoms needs every man they can get—Free Folk or not—and—“

“You don’t need to explain to me. I’m on your side, Jon.” Sam said, holding up his hands and smiling sincerely.

_Thank Gods for Sam._

Jon breathed a sigh of relief before Sam continued—stumbling slightly over his words. “I’ve seen them—I’ve seen the Others, Jon… I even killed one.”

Jon blanched, arching his eyebrows in surprise. “You killed a White Walker? Sam—How?”

“With dragonglass. Outside Craster’s Keep… But I’ve seen an entire army… Thousands of them.”

“Seven Hells,” Jon breathed shakily, his mind racing to process the information. “Sam, I bet you’re the first brother in thousands of years to kill an Other” he said before smiling weakly.

Sam blushed. “Well… Maybe,” he said modestly, shuffling his feet before lifting his head to meet Jon’s gaze. “Some of the brothers said you met a woman… Is that true? Is that why you deserted?” he asked, steering the focus of the conversation away from him by blurting out the question he’d obviously been dying to ask.

_Sam never could carry on a discussion for very long without some mention of girls._

Jon’s face paled with guilt. “I did meet a Wildling girl—Ygritte—and I do love her, Sam. I tried to stay loyal—honor my vows. Hells, and I killed Qhorin Halfhand on his own request—so the Free Folk would trust me—so I could get inside Mance’s army. And it worked… I always planned to come back—always thought of myself as a crow…”

“What changed? You—you broke your vows?”

Jon looked at his boots. “Aye. And when the time came to return to Castle Black, I tried to leave… But I couldn’t betray her. And then… We couldn’t stay with the Wildlings and I couldn’t bring her here… So she and I traveled to Winterfell—to be with my brother; to fight alongside him—but we were too late. Robb is dead.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Sam said, dropping his eyes to the floor.

Jon smiled softly, running his fingers along the rusted brine of the cell bars distractedly. “I didn’t know what to do, but I had to do something. So I came back here. I may not be a man of The Watch anymore, but I’m still trying to be a man of honor… Do you think I’m a fool, Sam?”

Sam’s eyes darted upwards to meet Jon’s searching gaze. “A fool? Of course not! Why would you say that?”

“Sam… I’ve spent the last few moons walking back and forth between Winterfell and The Wall—abandoning or failing every group of people I’ve sworn allegiance to… Except Ygritte.”

“It’s not like you’re just stumblin’ around, Jon!” Sam said earnestly. “Well… Maybe a bit,” he said, gesturing towards Jon’s bandages with a feeble laugh. “But you have your reasons for doing what you’re doing.”

“Aye, I’ve had my reasons… But I’m not sure if they justify all I’ve done—all my choices.” Jon said, bitterly.

“Jon, sometimes a man has to make hard choices… Choices that might look wrong to others… But that he knows are right in the long run.”

“But that’s just it, Sam… I don’t know.”

_You know nothin’, Jon Snow_

Ygritte’s words echoed in Jon’s head.

“You’re trying to do right by as many people as you can, Jon—that’s all a man can do. You should stop being so hard on yourself… Besides, you don’t want to give Ser Alliser the satisfaction,” Sam said.

Sam’s words were soothing, and Jon let out a small laugh—moved by his friend’s faith in him. “Gods, he’s wanted to hang me for awhile… Now’s his chance.”

“No one’s going to hang you—there’s to be a trial, Jon. And Maester Aemon will vouch for you—Me, Grenn, Pyp—we’ll all speak on your behalf. And your sister’s pardoned you—Queen of the North!”

Jon winced dryly, only half-believing he’d make it out of the trial with his life.

Sam took a deep breath—apparently relieved by his own optimism and smiled jovially despite the gravity of the situation. “But your um… this Ygritte? Where is she now?”

“I expect she’s already beyond The Wall. She will have gone to find Mance. She won’t have reached him yet, but we… If I couldn’t get the brothers to listen, she was to try to convince Mance to ask for peaceful passage.”

_Which would come with its own set of challenges..._

And even if Mance would listen, if Jon were being honest with himself, he didn’t expect Ygritte to try too hard to push the Wildlings towards compromise.

 _She knew as well as he did the benefits of peace—the protection and knowledge The Watch could offer the Free Folk. But if she suspected the brothers had executed Jon, she’d kill as many of them as there were arrows in her quiver without a single drop of remorse._

“Maybe if Ser Alliser sees the king beyond The Wall—sees his army—he’ll change his mind,” Jon continued. “Mance will know he no longer has the element of surprise, but he still certainly has the upper-hand when it comes to any bargaining—there’s no denyin’ that.”

Sam nodded. “Of course you’re right—but Ser Janos may be hard pressed to see your side even with 100,000 Wildlings closing in on The Castle—I think his ego is more bruised than his face... Though I heard it was a very good punch,” Sam giggled.

Jon grinned weakly. “To be honest, I don’t really remember it. I was seeing red.”

Sam smiled before jumping slightly—startled by a sudden noise from outside. “I—I should be going,” he said seriously, darting his hand quickly between the bars—the second hunk of bread clutched in his fleshy fist. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

Jon nodded curtly. “Thanks for coming by, Sam… And thanks for the food,” he said, taking Tormund’s piece.

_He was lucky to have Sam as a friend._

“The trial’s the day after next—you’ll see me then, Jon,” Sam said before turning swiftly on his heels and walking out the door, leaving the dungeons silent and stale in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm getting as tired as Jon is of rehashing his reasoning behind his actions!
> 
> After the trial, there shouldn't be much more character exploration regarding Jon's wildling-related diplomacy--we'll be dipping into R+L=J territory instead (if I can motivate my dumbass).
> 
> Coooooooool.


	21. XXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly a filler from Tormund's perspective. The Trial is coming up next.

**Tormund:**

The wind whistled harshly through the small fissures cracking along the cell walls as Jon Snow sat on the cold stones, mindlessly gnawing on his bottom lip—eyes shut lazily beneath his perpetually furrowed brow. Tormund tugged idly at the wiry curls of his own ginger beard, watching Jon as he did so. His wounds smarted uncomfortably in the damp morning chill.

_Fuckin’ Knight’s Watch. Fuckin’ Thenns. Fuckin’ Ygritte and the fuckin’ pretty crow who barely talks, but who’s somehow talked him into this mess._

“You keep chewin’ on like that, boy, and you’ll bite yer lip off.” Tormund said—his deep voice crackling from its lack of use.

Jon shot him a glance, smiling dryly. “I suppose that would be the least of my problems.”

Tormund let out a hearty laugh and exhaled moodily. He thought of his two daughters—of their rosy smiles, their youthful laughs, and of their dark hair—so different from his own. He coughed; the ghost of tears he’d not soon shed prickling softly at his eyes before an image of Ygritte flashed through his mind.

_Kissed by Fire—never quite his daughter, but never far from his paternal musings._

“I hope she’s faring better than we are,” Tormund said, knowing Jon would understand to whom he referenced.

“Do you think the Thenns will give her much trouble?” Jon asked, shifting his positioning to face Tormund—his leather jerkin squeaking with his movement.

Tormund had ruminated on this very question for a few days now. It certainly wasn’t ideal—the woman who had rejected Mance’s orders and killed their Magnar now functioning in Tormund’s place as a leader of sorts; guiding their small party in the opposite direction—back under The Wall. But, Tormund knew few people (men or women) who could match Ygritte’s determination and fury.

“I’ll tell ya, Jon Snow, I doubt those Thenns are happy with her, but they respect savagery and discipline if nothing else, and they did watch her put an arrow through their commander’s skull—I expect they’ll feel some obligation to follow her as long as she’s leading them to Mance.”

Jon’s dark eyes flickered in thought before he nodded restrainedly, his shoulders relaxing back against the wall in a resigned slump.

Tormund had overheard the conversation between Jon and the heavy crow the night before, and their words had softened some of his residual anger towards Jon’s original betrayal. The boy appeared to truly love Ygritte. And Gods, she certainly loved him back—Tormund had never known Ygritte’s loyalty to be so fierce.

_No doubt, she had truly been stolen (heart and all)... By a bloody deserter crow._

“Besides,” Tormund continued, his lips twitching into a slight grin. “I don’t think the entire Free Folk army could stop her from tryin’ to rescue you, boy. If she thinks those fuckin’ Thenns—or even Mance himself—are gettin’ in her way, she’ll cut ‘em down like saplings.”

Jon’s mouth curled into a sad smile. “Well, she might have to settle for avenging me—I’m not sure we’re going to make it out of this one.”

Without warning, the doorway creaked and a young boy emerged, balancing two steaming bowls on a thin, wooden tray. His cheeks were flushed and his thin lips pressed tightly together with obvious distaste. The boy looked familiar, though Tormund couldn’t say why.

The two bowls were slipped sloppily through the cell bars, a third of their already meager contents splashing to the cold stone.

Tormund grunted and glared at the child, who merely glowered at his own boots. Meanwhile, Jon scooted forward and grabbed a bowl, looking up from his seated position to meet the boy’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Jon said. “What’s your name?”

The boy scowled and tugged on the collar of his tunic bitterly, ignoring Jon’s gaze and instead staring intently at Tormund.

Tormund shrugged his great shoulders and raised his hands in annoyance. “He asked you a question, boy,” Tormund said coldly. “We Free Folk might not be big on rules, but we know how to treat one another with respect.”

The boy’s face reddened. “Respect?” he practically shouted. “Is that what you call it when you raid an entire village, killing everyone in your path? You killed my parents!” he cried, pointing a trembling finger at Tormund. “You killed everyone. We were farmers—and you slaughtered us.”

Tormund placed the small boy—remembered the village—and his heart sank, though not with guilt as much as empathy. His body softening as he sucked in his ruddy cheeks. “I’m sorry about your parents,” Tormund sighed. “But we’ve been fightin’ each other for thousands of years—I’ve lost good people too,” he said soberly.

“This wasn’t a fight.” The boy said through clenched teeth.

“Look, boy—“ Tormund began, an edge returning to his voice.

“My name is Olly! And my father's name was Guymon.” Olly‘s eyes brimmed with tears and he turned, fleeing the dungeons and slamming the wooden door heavily behind him.

Tormund looked at Jon. “I’m sorry, Jon Snow. I imagine that’s one less crow who will vote in our favor tomorrow.”

Jon said nothing, brown eyes clouding with thought as he dipped his face into his bowl and slurped loudly. Tormund followed suit and drained the liquid from his own bowl before reaching for the day-old pail of water and washing the starchy taste of broth from his mouth.

He wiped a large hand across his beard—drops of liquid caught like seeds swollen in a ripe, red strawberry. Tormund could tell the interaction with Olly had left Jon uncomfortable—probably lamenting the death of innocents at the hands of his Free Folk allies.

_The boy needed to spend more time fightin’ or fuckin’ and less time frettin’. We all die—innocent or not—and some of us sooner than others…_

“Any chance you could convince one o’ your black brothers to smuggle us a skin of ale, Jon Snow?” Tormund asked. “If my last night is spent in yer grim company, I might as well be drunk enough to enjoy it.”

Jon hiccupped a small laugh and pursed his full lips in amusement—his thick brows arching warmly. “Would you like a bath too, Tormund? And maybe some warm furs?” he asked sarcastically.

Tormund bellowed a hearty laugh. “Aye, and a busty woman with a wet cunt to share ‘em with—you’re pretty, Jon Snow, but you’re not _that_ pretty.”

“I’m not,” he shook his head grinning, but his smile quickly faltered.

“You thinkin’ about her, boy?” Tormund asked knowingly.

Jon nodded. “I’m glad she’s not here… stuck behind bars—but I still miss her. I’m not ready to die and I’d like to see her again... Do you have anyone—who, you know…?” he laughed. “Who’s not a bear?”

Her face danced across his mind—rich, dark hair framing the fire in her eyes. “I did once—she gave me two daughters, but it was a long time ago. And she’s dead now.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tormund grunted. “Happens to us all… Gods, she was something though. Her teats—enough to make even Mance bend the knee.”

Jon laughed and pushed himself from the ground, turning his back on Tormund and walking to the empty bucket in the corner. He spread his legs into a stance all men know well.

“What’s a Lord’s Kiss, Jon Snow?” Tormund asked suddenly, remembering Ygritte’s brief mention of it several moons ago on a drunken night of swapping tales of love and fucking.

Jon tensed visibly. “Er… What?” His piss began to flow—its stream splashing loudly against the metal of the pail.

“The girl said it was somethin’ only you knew—And before I die, I’d like to find out what secret a baby crow knew about spearin’ a woman that I didn’t.”

“Er… I—It’s not…”

“For fuck’s sake, boy—you’ve got yer cock in yer hand! Surely you can talk about it—on yer last night in this world,” Tormund said with unsympathetic irritation.

“I kiss her… Between her legs—I use my mouth,” Jon said, flustered despite his obvious attempts to maintain his cool.

Tormund laughed loudly—the noise of his shocked admiration echoing against the stones of the cell. “Is that something all you kneelers do?”

“I don’t know,” Jon said, his stream audibly weakening as he shrugged. “But I like to do it.”

“Huh? I guess when yer member is a fourth the size o’ mine you’ve got ta please her in other ways!”

Jon turned his head, giving Tormund a look as he shook himself dry—a blush still coloring his cheeks. He returned to his spot on the ground—his hands resting against his bent knees.

“If we ever get out of here, I’ll have to use that one, Jon Snow.”


	22. XXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Publishing Sam’s POV of the trial as a separate chapter!

**Jon:**

Jon slept little that night—his thoughts consumed by the weight of mortality. He had sat uncomfortably still, his clammy hands picking at bursts of lichen that meandered across the stone floor; somehow thriving despite the indifferent chill of the cell.

Trying to wrap his head around the idea of his probable and impending death had proved impossible. Every time Jon felt himself closing in on some nuanced epiphany, further understanding would slip through his grasp like sand through parted fingers. He was left with an overwhelming emptiness in the face of death’s incomprehension.

The dull pounding of nausea churned in his stomach as he considered the possible outcomes of his trial and Jon laughed bleakly—the suddenness of the noise causing Tormund to stir briefly from his own thoughts in the corner.

_This dreadful sense of present emptiness won’t matter much to him when he’s gone—Jon Snow would become as much a part of the emptiness as everything else._

He wondered curiously if death would hurt—his emotions detached from his musings. Jon pictured himself kneeling—his frozen cheek pressed against the chopping block’s calloused surface as the sharp bite of steel severed his head from his body. The execution would leave his glassy eyes staring vacantly at the sky—staring at nothing as rich blood blackened the snow around his dark, limp curls.

_It was how his father had gone. What had Ned Stark thought before his death?_

Jon remembered his father’s warm hand tousling his hair after he’d shot his first bull’s-eye. Robb had cheered for him while lady Catelyn turned on her heel, her expression cold as she left the courtyard—her long cloak stirring up the snow behind her.

He recalled a night when he was young. Jon had been crying softly in his chambers over his banishment from yet another banquet in a long series of feasts that he wasn’t deemed worthy of attending.

_His father never seemed to argue much against these dismissals, which was what had hurt the most._

He heard music drifting from the fete and, so moved by the poetic and melancholic plucking of the distant harp, Jon had left his chambers and followed the sound to the Great Hall, where he sat crouched behind an ancient coat of armor. The harpist’s songs assuaged his bitterness, and he listened to the melodic notes for long over an hour, feeling somehow more a part of the world than he had before—somehow more connected.

Septon Chayle had stumbled upon Jon’s hiding place and sent him back to bed with a crust of bread and a light swat on his behind. After that night, Jon couldn’t remember many times when he had cried.

He thought of comforting Arya as angry tears rolled off her cheeks—of running through the crypts with her and Bran—of sparring with Theon while Ser Rodrik gave instructions. He remembered baby Rickon wrapping his small hands around Jon’s fingers for the first time.

Jon took a deep breath as his thoughts skipped to Ygritte.

_How he’d like their babe to clutch his fingers in its tiny fist._

Picturing the patch of freckles across the slight upturn of Ygritte’s nose—the milky crests of her hips—her hoarse laughter at his expense—the slick of her blushing lips—Jon closed his eyes smiling softly.

He thought briefly of touching himself through the fabric of his breeches—but he had no more energy for that than he did for dying.

Sam appeared after awhile and Jon walked wordlessly behind him towards the Common Hall, leaving Tormund alone in the cell with nothing but a silent nod (which encompassed all the complications and solidarity of his good-bye far better than words ever could).

As heavy snow swirled around him, Jon found himself sweating. Upon contact, the flakes melted against his flushed skin. He thought with little comfort that at least this meant he was alive in the face of the cold.

Trudging behind Sam amidst the muffled hush of snowfall, Jon reflected on his broken vows and on swearing his oath next to his friend beneath the Weirwood.

_Were the Old Gods looking down on him now? Did they look with forgiveness or anger? Did the Gods look at all?_

A gust of wind surged suddenly, dragging Jon’s dark strands of hair plastering sporadically across his heated face.

Too soon, they reached the Hall and Jon placed a gloved hand against the icy door—his heart beating faster in his chest. He looked to Sam.

“It’ll be okay, Jon,” his friend said, pushing past Jon’s splayed glove and stepping across the threshold into the dimly lit room. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Jon swallowed thickly, hesitating. “I’ve done plenty wrong,” he said stonily before crossing into the common area himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reread Sartre’s The Wall just before writing this, which seemed fitting. 
> 
> Also really enjoyed thinking of Jon's relationship with music and how it's something he may have inherited from Rhaegar.


	23. XXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated alongside Tormund’s and Jon’s previous POV chapters!

**Samwell:**

Jon stood before the long table—his hands clasped behind his back (though from nervousness or respect, Sam could not say)—and told his story as he had many times. Maester Aemon, Ser Alliser, Ser Janos, and several other prominent brothers of The Watch listened intently from their elevated positions.

Sam stayed to the side with Edd, Grenn, Pyp, and a handful of Jon’s friends and supporters. The room was full and the crowd of men emitted a stench to which Sam had become well accustomed. Sam worried for Jon, but expected the outcome of the trial would culminate in his favor.

_Jon always seemed to end up alright._

Jon’s recounting began with his separation from Qhorin Halfhand—the retelling hiccupping slightly as Ser Alliser’s accusations of murder forced Jon to justify the Halfhand’s death as necessary.

_Jon still carried the guilt from it, no doubt._

He talked of Ygritte and spoke truthfully about the breaking of his vows before covering the climbing of The Wall and the rest of the events leading up to his ultimate desertion.

Ser Janos called several times for Jon’s death, citing the unwavering rigidity of the desertion laws. Fortunately however, Slynt was paid only slight notice and Jon’s tale continued to unravel—he spoke of his time at Winterfell and referenced his sister’s official pardon as the catalyst for his return to The Wall.

“Pardon or not, desertion marks the boy for death!” Slynt cried. “The law is the law!”

“Ser Janos is right,” Thorne agreed. “Are we not separate from the politics of The Seven Kingdoms? Sansa Stark’s claim to the throne is just another in a line of many recent squabbles for power. Surely some other northerner will usurp her in time—just like they did Robb Stark. Why should her raven mean anything?”

Jon’s face lost some of its color, and Sam guessed it had more to do with the mention of his siblings’ plight than it did with any further argument for Jon’s execution.

“While it’s true that an oath-breaker is typically sentenced to death,” Maester Aemon said. “Lords and Ladies have the jurisdiction of their lands. At this time, Sansa Stark stands as the Queen in the North and as such, her ruling holds the same validity as Ned Stark’s would have.”

A broad smile broke out across Sam’s face as Pyp nudged his arm with apprehensive positivity.

Jon took a deep breath and started again, covering his reunion with the roaming party of Wildlings, Tormund Giantsbane’s agreement to ally with The Watch to save as many lives possible, and the remainder of the band’s plans to seek compromise with The King Beyond The Wall.

“Assuming we vote not to execute you, do you intend to return to your post at The Watch?” Ser Alliser asked cooly.

“With all respect, Ser, I do not. I’ve had many fortnights to think on my decisions, and with my sister’s pardon, I’d like to act as a liaison between the men of The Watch and the Free Folk—I think I’ll be able to do the greatest good in that position.”

Sam’s heart fluttered nervously as his estimations for Jon’s chances of surviving this trial plummeted with the honest revelation of his intentions. Several of the men grumbled angrily.

Maester Aemon leaned forward. “Is that why you came back, Jon Snow? To do what has to be done?”

_Despite his blindness, Maester Aemon’s could see better than almost any man he knew._

“Winter is coming and so is Mance. Seek compromise or every brother will die at the hands of his army before the real war even comes,” Jon said strongly.

“What’s this _real_ war you speak of, Jon Snow?” Thorne asked skeptically.

“You know as well as I do that the dead are no longer staying dead. The Walkers are moving and they’ll hit the Free Folk first—every man, woman, and child beyond The Wall will fall and become fuel for the army of the dead… The Seven Kingdoms stand a better chance with those bodies on our side.”

“Is that what you propose, Jon Snow? Letting the Wildlings into our lands? To raid our villages? To murder our people? The Wildlings will never compromise—they’re savages!” Alliser combated hotly.

“They won’t raid our villages—they’ll be our allies—they belong to the realms of men just like the rest of us. It was my understanding that The Night’s Watch has sworn to protect the realms of men and for 8,000 years, it seems they have fallen short of that oath by fighting the Free Folk just because they were born on the wrong side of The Wall—it’s time to change that,” Jon said. “I know Mance—he’s a reasonable man and he cares more for his people than he does for conquering and bloodshed—they won’t kill us if we offer to help them—let them pass through the tunnels.”

Swelling with pride for his friend, Sam beamed nervously before Maester Aemon spoke with finality. “Winter is almost upon us and Jon Snow speaks the truth… We’ll open up the floor to comments before the voting begins,” the Maester croaked.

Unable to stop himself from shouting out first, Sam offered his perspective. “Jon’s right!” he yelled. “It’s the decent thing to do… And even if it weren’t, we need the Wildlings more than they need us! One-hundred men won't stop Mance's army of 100,000!”

He thought of Gilly and her sweet smile. His belly warmed.

Over the course of the next hour, several brothers piped in with their support, Pyp and Edd among them. As to be expected, a few men spoke out against Jon, including a relatively new recruit by the name of Locke, who argued for Jon’s death. It didn’t surprise Sam much—the man used to fight for Roose Bolton.

Shifting on his feet with an air of nervousness, Jon ran his hand distractedly through his hair as the tokens were cast either in or against Jon’s favor. Maester Aemon collected and counted the chips with spindly fingers—sorting them into their according stacks with heavy clinks.

Jon looked up beneath his mop of hair when the Maester’s fingers stopped working—the stacks alarmingly similar in their relative heights. “Am I to be executed? Or am I free to go to Mance?” he asked boldly.

_Only Jon Snow would tie his entire fate to a vote which also encompassed allying with and effectively saving an entirely separate and widely detested race of people._

Standing shakily, the Maester delivered the verdict. “We won’t be taking your head today, Jon Snow.”

Sam yipped loudly as a sizeable cheer broke out about the room and Jon took a deep breath, relaxing visibly; his face warming as his cheeks deflated with air—a smile tugging at his lips.

Grenn ran to Jon and clapped him firmly on the back as Pyp rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’ll live to see another day,” Edd said, walking to Jon and shaking his hand with a wide smile.

“Alright! Alright! Let the man breathe.” Sam said, stepping finally to Jon’s side and leaning into his ear. “I told ya it’d be alright,” he said laughing; his full jowls shaking with his giddy movement.

The sound of a chair scraping the floor echoed throughout the room and Jon and Sam looked up to see Ser Janos stalking off angrily. Meeting Jon’s gaze, Ser Alliser pushed himself to his feet and looked down with disdain. “You have a good heart, Jon Snow,” he said. “It’ll get us all killed.”


	24. XXIV

**Jon:**

Jon’s steps were purposeful in their solitude as he crossed the vast space from Castle Black to the forest’s tree line. The crows squawked callously above him—their tinny cries and rustling wings echoing the billowing of Jon’s ebony cloak in time with his heavy breathing.

Moving through the forest’s dark expanses, Jon felt dwarfed by the long-standing silhouettes of blackened trees stretching into bursts of twisting branches above him. He strode with apprehension as the distant hum of whining dogs and rough voices were carried on a gust of wind.

Entering the outskirts of the Wildling camp, Jon held up his hands—his fingers spread submissively. The thick leather of his boiled gloves glinted in the shafts of light floating through the wooded canopy. One by one, Free Folk began to surface from their crude shelters, encircling Jon and following his advancement through their encampment threateningly.

Jon’s heartbeat accelerated every time he caught a glimpse of auburn among the drab blues and heathers of his surroundings, only to slow again when the splashes of color did not further reveal Ygritte.

Reaching a comparably large tent near the center, Jon halted his footsteps. Hide flaps were flung forcibly open and the King Beyond The Wall emerged from his dwelling—the planes of his face wrought with strength and cunning. Mance looked upon Jon with sourness as he surveyed the younger man before him.

“Jon Snow,” he said, his pale lips twisting acidulously amidst the peppery scruff of his chiseled, fleshy jaw. “Your brothers let you live.”

Jon looked Mance in the eye boldly. “I’ve been sent to negotiate with you,” he said, his voice husky from exhaustion more so than apprehension.

Mance’s eyebrows rose with unsurprised acknowledgement—the movement deepening the contouring creases of his cheeks as he turned to face his tent and disappeared into its hazy refuge. Jon exhaled a plume of vapor and followed suit.

Seated across from Mance, Jon scratched at the furs of his cloak—glad of the greyed, northern pelts wrapped around his shoulders as opposed to the black brush that adorned the Night’s Watch clothing he had once worn with legitimacy.

_He wasn’t here as a crow._

“I was hoping your loyalty was real when you pledged yourself to us, Jon Snow. Truly I was.” Mance said.

“You and The Watch both, I suppose,” Jon answered dryly.

“Hmm,” Mance did not laugh. “She wasn’t enough to turn you in our favor, eh?”

The mention of Ygritte peaked Jon’s interest. “Have you seen her?” he asked anxiously.

“Aye, I have… And from what I can make of her tale, you seemed to have turned her.”

_She’s here. Thank the Gods._

Jon let out a relieved exhale and thought on Mance’s words. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said after a pause. “If anything, we both turned each other—my loyalty lies with her and with the realms of men—all men; crow and Free Folk alike.” Jon finished firmly. “How is she?”

A mixed expression of annoyance and respect crossed Mance’s face. “She returned only last night with nothin’ but her bow and that great wolf of yers at her side… She’s not said much.”

“She returned alone?”

_Where was the rest of Tormund’s party?_

Mance nodded. “She thought you dead—yet here you are.” Mance handed Jon a horn of ale. “I expect she’ll be relieved to see you. So…” he said, drawing his hands in a gesture of anticipation. “Negotiate.”

Jon took a deep breath. “There’s been enough fighting and you know better than anyone that winter is almost upon us,” he began. “The men of The Watch have voted to open their gates to your people. In exchange, they ask that the Free Folk fight alongside them when the Long Night comes. No one has to die.”

Mance leaned back in his chair—his fingers thoughtfully intertwined in his lap as he entertained Jon’s proposition. “No conditions?”

“Keep the peace and the Free Folk can reside in The Gift under The Watch’s protection. Your warriors will garrison the abandoned castles along The Wall.

“I’ll admit, Jon Snow, you strike a good bargain… How many men man Castle Black? Truthfully?”

“One-hundred.”

Mance laughed and Jon looked down to take a sip of ale. The liquid burned his throat and he found himself coughing forcefully. “That’s not wine,” he choked, wiping his mouth.

“No. It’s a proper northern drink.” Mance replied, mouth cracking into a restrainedly amused smile. “One-hundred men, eh? That’s not much.”

“It’s not—but it’d be enough to hold you off for a night or two—enough to kill a number of your men—good men.”

Mance held up his hands defensively. “My people have bled enough, Jon Snow. And truth be told, if my people aren’t south of the Wall when winter comes in earnest, we’ll all end up worse than dead. So, I’ll accept this deal. But…” he continued, eying Jon stonily “…if this is a trick or if any of my people meet their end at the hands of a disgruntled crow as we’re passin’ through, I won’t hesitate to kill every last man at Castle Black.”

Jon nodded with cold understanding and took another drink—the liquid going down smoother this time.

Similarly, Mance lifted his mug; hoisting it in a motion of contract and knocking back a heavy gulp. “You came just in time, Jon Snow,” he said, wincing as he swallowed. “My people were ready to take yer brothers’ Castle.”

“They’re not my brothers anymore,” Jon said.

“No—they’re not… But after what you’ve done here, many of them owe you their lives… How long’d it take ya to get ‘em to come to these terms?”

“It took a fair while… And several days of waiting in a cell,” Jon scoffed quietly. “The vote was close, but they’re good men—they’ll respect the conditions as long as you do.”

“Aye, let’s hope so… Ygritte told me of yer plans for compromise, but without yer return, it was lookin’ like we’d have to show some force before The Watch would open their tunnels.” Mance smiled wryly. “I can’t say she seemed too disappointed about that prospect.”

Jon smirked affectionately and ran a hand through his knotted hair. “I’d like to see her.”

“Aye, I suppose you would…” Mance stood. “Those crow vows didn’t much suit me either.” He gave Jon a sly wink and exited the tent. 

***

**Ygritte:**

Sitting alone—head cradled by pink palms, the arch of Ygritte’s bowed back mirrored the dip of the tent’s shallow ceiling. She felt empty.

_Don’t think about Jon._

Her mind was hazy and Ygritte found herself unable to entertain thoughts for longer than a few seconds at a time, resigning herself instead to a sort of static silence. Her heartbeat thumped dully in her ears and every now and then a tear would roll down her porcelain cheek. She knuckled her eyes roughly.

It was too difficult to accept Jon might be dead and similarly too difficult to hope he was still alive. Thus, she passed these hours in a state of fluctuating rage and numbness, waiting only for Mance’s orders and the relief that action would bring—any action.

_She’ll have an arrow for every brother in black._

The anger was bearable. The anger was necessary.

Without warning, the hides of the small shelter rustled from behind her, sending sunlight splashing across the furs at Ygritte’s feet. She turned swiftly, intending to berate the intruder. But, breath hitching and mouth trembling, Ygritte melted with tearful relief as she identified the familiar figure silhouetted in the tent’s opening—his dark curls framing a similarly softening smile on his face.

Wordlessly, Jon threw himself on top of her—his brows knitting together with residual pain from their separation mitigated by the relief at their reunion. Crushing his lips against hers, Jon pushed his tongue into her mouth and exhaled a choked laugh as he wrapped his arms tightly around her. Ygritte responded by grabbing his collar and pressing herself deeper into the kiss before pulling back and tracing the pads of her thumbs across his reddened cheekbones.

“Where ‘ave ya—?” she began, laughing as her words failed her.

Jon kissed her softly. “I missed you,” he said—his voice cracking.

“I missed you too, Jon Snow,” she answered huskily, resting her forehead against his and dipping a hand to caress the hairs along his jawline. “Gods, I thought you’d—.” She didn’t finish.

Jon grinned hesitantly. “It was close—but I’m alright—I’m here now... The Watch will let the Free Folk pass. I’ve already spoken with Mance.”

Ygritte laughed, smacking his shoulder lightly. “Wha’? Already?” She chuckled hoarsely and kissed him again. “Where’s Tormund?” She asked, drawing back.

“He’s still at Castle Black—he’s to stay there as a matter of precaution... Er… For bargaining… Until the Free Folk have settled at least.”

“They’re still keepin’ him prisoner?” she spat angrily.

“Well—just for the time being… Ygritte—what happened to you? Mance said you returned alone?”

“I couldn’t stand those fuckin’ Thenns… Couldn’t trust ‘em either—they didn’t take too kindly to me takin’ out that brute Magnar o’ theirs,” she grinned. “And I figured I’d rather make it to Mance with me head on me shoulders... so I crept off one night. I’ad Ghost to keep me warm—he might be the only company I’ve ever had who’s better at huntin’ game than I am.”

“Gods, I missed you,” Jon smiled warmly.

“Ya’ve said.” Ygritte’s grin fell from her face as Jon pushed himself against her and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. “Jon Snow…” she breathed.

“Mmm?”

Ygritte dropped her hand to his crotch and rubbed the heel of her palm between his legs—his cock already half-hard through his britches. “Those crows didn’t make you say yer vows again?”

Jon canted his hips and pushed himself emphatically into her touch—a slight moan escaping his lips. “I think…” he began, sidetracked when she grabbed his member’s clothed outline and started tugging steadily. “...I think I’d rather die than never touch… Gods… You again” he said shakily before pushing her back onto the furs and sliding between her legs; pulling her breeches down as he did so. 

He kissed a trail along her hipbones, massaging his hands into the muscle of her thighs as he shifted lower and pressed soft lips to the crest of her vulva. Jon’s tongue glided inside her and Ygritte shivered with the sensation—raising her body to his touches and closing her eyes tightly as her head fell back to the padded pelts.

Jon’s breath came in quivering pants—the warm air from his nostrils blowing teasingly against her clitoris and sending responsive moans rupturing from her open mouth. He pushed one finger inside her, and then another.

A blush crept across Ygritte’s cheeks as she struggled to swallow. Hands woven through his black locks, she gripped his scalp with need.

Reaching out and grabbing the rough of Jon’s cloak, Ygritte pulled his mouth to hers while shoving an impatient hand inside his britches. She danced her fingertips across the flushed skin below his navel before curling her hand around his bobbing erection with tender intimacy.

Ygritte then guided him inside her, prompting a collective groan from both their mouths and a tightening of Jon’s hand at her hips. Their kisses loosened with vulnerability as Jon moved within her—his pace quickening. Ygritte felt herself filling and trembling. She began to thrash arhythmically, and biting down on her lip, she threw her head back, approaching her peak.

Through her shuddering, she sensed Jon tense—spilling with a jerk of his hips and a loud cry, and sending her tumbling over the clouded edge of her own orgasm.

Jon pushed himself up on shaking arms and tilted his chin, taking her mouth within his as Ygritte’s core pulsed dimly around his softening cock. Her breathing steadied into him.

Jon let out a relieved laugh and rolled to his side, panting. “You’re much better company than Tormund,” he said—a tremor still lingering in his voice.

“I should hope so, Jon Snow,” she snorted.

He reached out and rubbed the back of his hand along her cheek, smiling warmly.

Ygritte looked into his dark eyes; small flecks of violet speckled amidst their deep brown. “I wasn’t ready to let you go,” she said softly.


	25. XXV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jon's dream directly pulled from GRRM.

**Ygritte:**

“I’m not a Stark!” Jon’s voice ripped hoarsely through the silence of the night.

Ygritte woke to the cry, jerking herself onto all fours and reaching across the pelts to shake Jon from his dream. “Jon!” she called, jostling his shoulder roughly.

His hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead and his body trembled beneath their furs. Ygritte tugged on his thin tunic and brushed the damp curls from his face as his whimpers turned into steady screams.

“Jon Snow! It’s a dream!” she yelled, her heart thumping and her head still swimming fuzzily from the suddenness of her waking. “Jon, wake up!”

Ygritte yanked the furs from his form and grabbed his thrashing wrists, pulling him forward. His eyes shot open in fear and confusion as he tried to wrench himself from her grasp.

“Would ya calm down? You’re all right! You’re all right, Jon Snow. It was just a dream,” she soothed, cradling his head into her lap and running a hand through his hair as he shivered in her hold.

The couple sat for a few minutes in silence before Jon spoke. “I’m sorry I woke you… I was dreaming about the castle,” he said, almost distantly.

“About Winterfell?” she asked.

“Aye… I’ve had the same dream before, but it feels more real each time.” He took a deep breath and pushed himself to a sitting position where he stilled, staring at his lap and tugging distractedly at the fabric of his smallclothes before continuing. “The castle is always empty… Even the ravens are gone from the rookery, and the stables are full of bones. That always scares me… I start to run then, throwing open doors, climbing the tower three steps at a time, screaming for someone, for anyone. And then I find myself in front of the door to the crypts.” His tongue poked nervously from his full lips. “It’s black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there—but I don’t want to. I’m afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps… but it’s not them I’m afraid of. I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. And it gets darker and darker, until I want to scream.”

“You were screaming, Jon Snow; that’s fer sure,” Ygritte said, her brow knitting in concern. “You’ve had this dream before?”

“Aye.” He looked up. “And I’m always looking for someone—my father, Robb, or Arya. But this time… I don’t know who I was trying to find… Just that I couldn’t find them. They were close… I know that,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth in thought. “But I felt just as lonely all the same.”

Ygritte bit down on her bottom lip. “Ya screamed out that ya weren’t a Stark,” she said, eyeing him curiously.

Jon rubbed at his tired eyes. “Did I? Hmm… Well I’m not, am I?” he said with a sad grin. “In the dream, I know that I shouldn’t be in the crypts—that they’re not my place… But it’s no good. I have to go anyway.”

Ygritte scooted herself between his legs, leaning back and resting against his stomach—her delicate fingers beginning to circle his knotted knees with tender absentness. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

_A Snow, not a Stark._

“Jon Snow?” Ygritte began tentatively.

“Mmm?”

“Did yer father ever say who yer mother was?” She tilted her head to look him in the eye. She’d never asked before—not from disinterest, but instead from what semblances of sensitivity she possessed.

Jon exhaled deeply—another mournful smile crossing his lips. “The last time I saw my father, I asked him about her—he said he’d tell me everything when we next saw each other.” Jon began to trail fingers through Ygritte’s hair. “I don’t know anything about her—if she knew who I was or where I was going—if she cared,” he scoffed bitterly. “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

_Gods, the Stark family had to be the most unlucky family south of the whole fuckin’ Wall._

Something about the darkness of the hour lent itself to their conversation’s raw and dreamy quality, and Ygritte found Jon’s words to be as hazy and untouchable as they were important and purposeful. Her stomach churned with a discomfort that felt almost ominous in its nature.

“I’m sorry,” Ygritte said softly, sinking into his touch. “So you’ve no idea who she was—who she could ‘ave been?”

“I’ve had my guesses over the years,” Jon said. “I—I’ve always thought she was probably a whore… Most bastards are sons or daughters of whores.” He winced. “Why would I be any different?”

_The honorable Ned Stark gettin’ a tavern wench pregnant…_

“Well, it don’t matter what she was, Jon Snow—not really. It only matters who you are,” Ygritte said firmly.

Jon smiled his first genuine smile of the night. “I might not be much… But I don’t feel like a bastard when I’m with you,” he said.

Ygritte shifted slightly and pressed her lips to his, moving her hands from his knees and tracing the line of his jaw softly.  
A wolf’s howl echoed through the hides of their tent.

_Ghost._

Judging from the cry, the direwolf wasn’t too far off. They had pitched their small tent just south of The Wall and Ghost had set off fairly shortly thereafter—his white form silhouetted against the dark towers of Castle Black as he disappeared into the distance.

“’Ave ya warged since that night in the net—with The Thenns?” she asked.

“Not like it was then,” Jon answered, seemingly unfazed. “I still have the dreams… But never while I’m awake. I can feel him though—he’s restless; has been since we returned north.”

Ygritte nodded, recalling Ghost’s recent temperament in her company. The wolf had been testy and quick to snap—even at her on occasion (though since the reunion with Jon, Ghost had calmed slightly). Her eyelids felt heavy. “We should rest, Jon Snow… Tomorrow’s a big day.”

_The Free Folk would begin to pass through the tunnel… All 100,000 of them._

They slid beneath the furs wordlessly and Jon wrapped his arms again around her—a cold sheen of sweat still lingering on his skin. Ygritte nestled in closer.

“Don’t go explorin’ any more crypts in yer dreams,” she said. “Ya gave me a right fright cryin’ out the way ya did.”

Jon chuckled softly—his breath warm against the nape of her neck. “I’ll try my best to stay away from them.”

_He was safe now… And he was hers._

“Goodnight, Ygritte.”

“Goodnight, Jon Snow.”

***

**Jon:**

The snow fell heavily, muffling the sounds of bustling footsteps through the training grounds of Castle Black. The Free Folk marched—their hallowed expressions clouded with resigned docility.

Jon (his hair speckled with thick snowflakes) stood with Mance near the steadily flowing line of bodies. He couldn’t help but notice Mance’s hand twitch several times to the hilt of his sword—his eyes scanning the courtyard watchfully despite his composed air.

“Is it strange to be back?” Jon asked, turning to Mance.

A calm smile crept across Mance’s lips. “No stranger than 100,000 Free Folk walkin’ through those gates,” he answered, gesturing and dropping his gaze to meet Jon’s. “I imagine you and I are the first deserters in history to return here with our heads still on our shoulders, Jon Snow.”

Jon laughed weakly. “You might be right—I’m honored to share the disgraced company of the King beyond The Wall,” he joked.

“Oh, I think it’s them lot who should be disgraced,” Mance said seriously, looking to the line of sober Night’s Watch men lining the wooden platform by the lift—their eyes burning with anger. “They’ve no idea of what’s to come.”

_Winter in all earnestness._

Before Jon could answer, the yard began to shake—upturned stones trembling in the muddied snow. Jon glanced upwards—dark eyes widening warily beneath his thick brows—to see Wun-Wun ducking beneath the wooden overpass and continuing down the line.

Jon never could get used to giants and to his relieved amusement, several of the brothers’ jaws had gone slack along with his own.

Mance clapped him on the back, causing Jon to take a stumbled step forward. “Yer a good lad, Jon Snow,” he laughed.

Just then, Ygritte emerged from the crowd carrying a child in her arms. The girl’s straw-brown hair was matted underneath the thick furs of her hood; her cheeks rosy from the frost.

Ygritte walked to Jon, stopping and bouncing the girl on her hip. “Jon Snow, this is Tormund’s granddaughter, Birna.”

“Hello Birna,” Jon said, his leather gloves squeaking with the motion of his slight wave.

“She’s Munda’s daughter—and that there’s Tormund’s other daughter—Hildr.” Ygritte pointed to a girl of about Bran’s age. She stood several paces away, her expression dark beneath swirling chestnut tendrils. Her green eyes gleamed with a familiar malice Jon recognized in Tormund.

The girl stared right at him.

“She won’t come much closer,” Ygritte said, her blue eyes sparkling mirthfully above a teasing smile. “She don’t like ya too much… asked me why ‘that frownin’ one’ won’t let her da’ out of his crow cage.”

Jon grimaced in Hildr's direction.

“She was talkin’ about you, in case ya didn’t catch that,” Ygritte laughed.

Jon’s mouth tugged itself into a downturned smile. “Yeah, thanks for that,” he snorted with a half-hearted cringe.

“Don’t let it trouble ya too much—ya can’t please everyone, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said wisely—her tongue running along the crack of her slanted smile. “Here, take Birna—I’ve got to ‘elp Munda with the dogs. Those dumb beasts might not be as big as yer wolf, but Gods, they’re a handful—and thick as wood.”

The little girl wrapped her legs around Jon and rested her head on his snow-covered shoulder. He could feel her faint heartbeat fluttering through their furs and Jon’s thoughts turned to Rickon.

_If he was still alive, he'd be out there somewhere—with Bran—their childhoods stolen by war and winter..._

Jon braced a gloved hand tenderly on the girl’s back and, sparing one more look at Tormund’s youngest daughter, walked a ways towards Sam, who was sitting against a wagon with Gilly and the babe.

“Well who’ve ya got there,” Sam said, smiling gleefully at Jon’s approach.

“This is Tormund’s grandchild,” Jon answered, turning the girl so she could see Sam. She smiled shyly and nestled into Jon’s cloak, prompting an unconscious smile of Jon’s own to spread across his face. “Hello, Gilly,” Jon said, turning again.

“’Lo, Jon.” Gilly said excitedly. “’Ave you ever seen this many people at one time? I’ve not!” she exclaimed before he could answer, nodding to the throng of Free Folk.

“Aye, there’s a fair few,” Jon laughed.

“I should take you to Oldtown,” Sam said. “There’re five times as many people bustlin’ about ‘round there!”

“Five times?” Gilly asked, shocked.

Sam nodded. “And The Citadel—the biggest library in all of Westeros.”

“What’s a library?” she asked bluntly—her face scrunching into confusion.

“A library?” Sam chuckled. “It’s where all the books are kept.”

“Every book in the whole world?”

“Well… No, not every book—there’s more than one library in the world,” Sam said with cheerful amusement.

Jon thought of Westeros—tuning out Sam and Gilly’s back-and-forth and rocking his body gently with the child in his arms. He remembered the smells of the summer, the stubborn scratching of Bran’s feet outside Jon’s chamber windows as the boy scrambled up the walls of the castle, the laughter Sansa would share with Jeyne Poole (often at Arya’s expense), and the warmth of Winterfell’s hot springs.

“Well, if it isn’t Lord Snow and Lady Piggy.” Jon turned—his thoughts interrupted—to see Slynt standing behind him—his beady eyes still slightly bruised. “What with her,” the fleshy man directed a hand at Gilly, “and these little savages, you’ve almost got yourselves a whole wildling family, boys.”

Jon sighed with angry exasperation. “Sam, take her to Ygritte,” he said, passing the little girl to his friend, who took the child quickly and stood up, grabbing Gilly’s hand and vacating the scene with a meek smile shot Jon’s way.

“Ygritte? Is that your whore, Snow? Some of the men may have forgiven your… Dalliances,” Slynt said coldly. “But I’ve not."

“Lucky for me, I don’t much care what you think,” Jon responded.

Slynt’s eyes slitted above a simpering smile. “Oh, it’s not just me, boy… That vote was close.” Slynt puffed out his chest dramatically before continuing. “You know,” he mused cruelly, looking to the passing wildlings, “your father—he was soft-hearted too… It didn’t work out very well for him, did it?”

Jon’s face whitened as he clenched his fists, stepping towards Ser Janos.

_Gods, he’d like to blacken another of Slynt’s eyes._

“Are you going to hit me again, Jon Snow?” He held up a pudgy finger to Jon’s face. “Go on. Do it—give The Watch one more good reason to have you executed. We’ll put your head on a spike—just like your traitor father’s.”

Jon grabbed Slynt’s wrist and shoved it from his path, stalking away and shaking with rage. He thundered up wooden steps and through the castle’s many twists and turns before finding himself just outside the library’s door, his heart still hammering angrily in his chest. Jon pushed it open with a creak and saw The Maester slumped over some dusty parchments. He looked up at Jon’s intrusion.

“Maester Aemon… I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The old man waved his long fingers dismissively. “Come in, come in. You may no longer be a man of The Watch, Jon Snow, but you’re still allowed to take a look at our books.”

“I’m not here for books, I—I wanted to ask your advice—er—your opinion.” Jon said, pulling out a chair and sitting alongside Maester Aemon.

Jon took a deep breath. “Do you think I’ve done the wrong thing?”

“Of which _thing_ do you speak, Jon Snow?”

“I’m not even sure,” Jon laughed bitterly.

“Well—it doesn’t matter” he said, matter-of-factly.

“It doesn’t matter?” Jon repeated Maester Aemon’s words skeptically.

“No, Jon Snow. What’s done is done, and so far, you’ve simply done what you’ve had to do… You may have made mistakes along the way, but we all do... Do you remember the words I spoke to you just before your attempt at desertion? Days before Mr. Tarly brought you back those many fortnights ago?”

Jon nodded with rather pained embarrassment. “Aye—some of them.”

The Maester smiled softly. “I told you, ‘love is the death of duty,’ and here you sit—once a man of The Watch—now an oathbreaker—a man of broken vows…”

“I—“ Jon began.

“Why did you abandon those vows?”

Jon swallowed uncomfortably. “To—for Ygritte—for my family…”

“For love…” his voice croaked. “And, do you remember what you said when I asked what your father might do when confronted with a choice between honor and love?”

Jon shook his head. “But I expect I said he’d do the noble thing,” he answered glumly.

“Aye, Jon Snow, I think that’s what you meant then too… But that’s not what you said—you said that Ned Stark would do ‘whatever is right. No matter what.’” Maester Aemon looked at Jon, who swore the old man could see right through him despite the milky film coating both his eyes. “Sometimes the path to right and wrong isn’t as clear as we’d like it to be… Sometimes the _right_ thing to do is simply the thing we know deep down we have to do... And you’ve already figured out for yourself what that is. All that comes next will only be so because it must.”

Jon exhaled, almost relieved, albeit slightly addled, and looked down at his hands with shy humility.

“Your life has contained little joy,” Maester Aemon continued gravely. “But with luck, you will continue finding the strength to do what needs to be done as your future unfolds.”

Jon smiled wistfully. “Maester Aemon, can I ask you one more question?” Slynt had rattled him, and the conversation with The Maester, although comforting, was provoking as much existential turmoil as it was assuaging.

“Go ahead.”

“In your life—when you look back… Did you make the right choice?”

The man’s wrinkled mouth tightened before opening again to speak. “I’ve learned to live with my choice—I’m where I was always going to be, Jon Snow, and soon you shall be too—that’s what being a man is.”

Jon ran a hand across his forehead and tried to process the depth of The Maester’s words.

Just then the door banged open and Ygritte stumbled through its entrance, her face lighting up into a satisfied smile. “There ya are! I’ve been lookin’ all over. He helped me ‘round this place” she said, jerking a thumb at Sam, who had just appeared from behind her. “Ya finally got that great bald git t’ leave ya alone, then?” she said.

Jon laughed, collecting himself from the surprise at her sudden arrival. “Yes, Ser Janos’ and my conversation was rather short-lived.”

“Good,” Ygritte said, seating herself at the table. Maester Aemon scooted his chair back and made to stand up. “Oh, ya don’t ‘ave to leave on my account,” Ygritte said, looking towards him with what Jon supposed was as close to politeness as Ygritte would ever get.

“Not to worry, girl—it’s time I head to the rookery,” he said kindly. “The men at Castle Black aren’t the only crows who’ve got to eat… Care to join me, Mr. Tarly?”

Sam nodded and the pair shuffled out the door, leaving the library in a warm, humming silence.

“Who’s that, then?” Ygritte asked.

“That’s Aemon Targaryen—in all the seven kingdoms, he might be the man with the most claim to the Iron Throne, and perhaps one of the few men who would truly deserve it.”

“He’s related to that… Robin Baratheon?” Ygritte asked.

“To Robert Baratheon? No—well only distantly… Maester Aemon was a prince once—A Targaryen and next in line for the throne. But he joined The Watch instead—came to Castle Black and never left. By the time the Targaryen empire collapsed, he was already an old man,” Jon said sadly, thinking on the differences between Maester Aemon’s choices and his own.

“Did you Starks like them lot—the Targaryens?”

Jon shook his head. “Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped my father’s sister, Lyanna, who was set to marry Robert Baratheon.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Mhmm—Stole. It’s what started the rebellion. Robert Baratheon rode out to the Battle of the Trident and killed Prince Rhaegar.”

“What happened to yer aunt?”

“My father tried to rescue her, but he was too late. She died in hiding. After that, the Targaryens fell and Robert became King. He married Cersei Lannister.”

“What did Lyanna want?” Ygritte asked starkly.

“What?” Jon asked, perplexed by the direction of questioning.

“Who did yer aunt want to be with? The Baratheon or the Targaryen?”

“Dunno—I never thought to ask…” Jon said, his brow knitted in thought. “But kidnapping doesn’t sound too desirable.”

Ygritte arched her own brows. “Maybe not, Jon Snow, but that’s how we Free Folk claim each other—maybe some o’ you kneelers ‘ave more in common with us than we thought… You stole me, remember?”

Jon laughed. “Not on purpose.”

Ygritte smacked the top of his head. “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?” she said, smiling.

Jon grinned and messed her hair lovingly before standing up. “C’mon—we should get going.”

“Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said, pushing Jon flush against the cold wall and crashing her lips against his.

Jon resisted at first, pressing his body closer to the stones, but his resolve quickly weakened and he soon responded to her kiss with matched vivaciousness.

His cock jumped in his breeches and he pushed Ygritte back. “Ygritte—We shouldn't—not here…”

She eyed him with annoyed dismissal and dropped to her knees, rubbing her hand along the swell of his member as she went—her fingers darting to his laces and beginning to untie them nimbly.

_Someone could walk in._

“Do you want them to kill me?” Jon hissed with a noticeably dwindling measure of care, nudging her gently with his knees.

“Oh stop yer complainin’, Jon Snow,” Ygritte smiled, looking up then, as if to verify his consent before moving. And with a bitten lip and a hastily embarrassed nod from Jon, she pulled out his cock, running her tongue along its shaft. Jon whined as she closed her lips around his pulsing head.

Ygritte stayed like that for a couple minutes—her cheeks hollowing in and out as she sucked decadently. Jon’s throat went dry and he arched off the wall into her touch unthinkingly—more and more removed from any potential consequences of being discovered.

_Fuck, he was getting close._

Without warning, Ygritte removed her mouth from his cock with a wet pop, causing him to groan audibly as he thrust his hips forward—his freed erection bobbing untouched in the air.

“Do ya still think we shouldn't do it here, Jon Snow?” she asked.

Jon shook his head swiftly.

“What?” she asked again—a mocking grin on her face.

“No—Gods” he cried—his voice raspy.

“Are ya—“ she started, teasingly.

“Ygritte!”

Ygritte pushed herself to her feet and returned her mouth to his, closing the distance between their bodies and trapping his upright cock uncomfortably between them.

She reached down and began to stroke him—rubbing the collecting moisture along his length and pumping with increasing speed. Jon broke their kiss, leaning his head back and breathing heavily before shouting out with strangled abandon as Ygritte gripped his cock with a particularly firm fist and pulled—the motion culminating in a tight squeeze at his tip.

Jon spilled over the front of his jerkin with a strained moan and, his heart still racing in his chest, he opened his eyes to see a rather irritating smile plastered across Ygritte’s face.

“You’re pleased with yourself,” he said.

“I am, Jon Snow,” she laughed, reaching out and tucking his softening member into his britches. “I’ve always wanted to tug off a crow in this castle… tho’ ‘course, those fantasies usually ended with me slittin’ his throat and stealin’ whatever weapons he had on him.”

“Seven hells,” Jon whispered airily—too tired to laugh. “What am I supposed to do about this?” he asked, gesturing to the stains on his front; a decidedly miserable expression on his face.

“Wha’ am I supposed to do about this?” Ygritte jested, mimicking his low voice as she ripped off a scrap of her long tunic. Jon tied his laces as she did her best to wipe the mess from his boiled leathers.

“Thanks,” he smiled, wrapping his cloak around himself.

“You owe me,” she said with a wink, taking his hand in hers and walking towards the door.

_What is honor compared to a woman’s love?_

***

**Melisandre:**

The wind was strong but she felt no cold. Long strands of vivid red hair blew around her face as her horse pushed deeper and deeper through the snow—its black pelt shining with frothy sweat.

Blackwater had been a disaster—Stannis, her mistake.

_He’s dead now—she had been wrong. But, the Lord of Light never makes mistakes. Keep moving forward._

She kicked her mount with revived purpose and continued north, guided only by the visions of snow she had seen in the fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fiction, Stannis died in the Battle of the Blackwater. Melisandre has been trying to get herself together since then, but no longer able to ignore her visions, she's headed towards The Wall.
> 
> Otherwise, I think everything else in Westeros is happening pretty much as it does in the show?


	26. XXVI

**Jon:**

A soft sleet fell against the darkening sky, hushing the evening clang of practice swords and muddying Jon’s boots as he whirled around the training yard. Careful to avoid bumping into the day’s last trickle of wildlings migrating through the gates of Castle Black, Jon and Grenn were sparring with an air of friendly competition as the wintry mix collected on the ground—its contents pooling icily in the remaining impressions of their sloping, slippery footprints.

Grenn had come a long way since the early days and although Jon still bested him fairly easily, the new degree of effort which winning required left him feeling healthily exercised.

_It felt good to have a bit of fun despite the foreboding weight of winter’s approach—all the more so knowing that the benefits of their practice would pay off… Perhaps sooner rather than later._

Jon glided across the muck with flowing steps, swinging his sword in wide arcs to crash sturdily against Grenn’s in cacophonous clanks. Grenn tended to block these blows, but managed poorly on the offensive front—stepping back in time with each of the hits and lunging in clumsily sweeping motions whenever Jon paused in his advances. Jon dodged these attacks with consistent ease, but smiled sincerely amidst his deep breaths—offering his friend words of support every now and then.

The young steward—Olly—stood to the side, watching Jon’s movements with an expression of begrudging admiration and a rare smile or two.

“Very nice,” Jon said, after a solid thrust of Grenn’s sword in his direction.

Grenn grinned and returned to a combative stance before taking another swing at his opponent, who ducked swiftly. Popping back up with a hardy grunt and a quick flash of his blade, Jon placed his sword at Grenn’s throat and cracked a humble smirk.

Jon turned to Olly. “Have you ever held a sword before?”

The boy looked surprised to be acknowledged, but answered quickly with measured eagerness. “No,” he said. “But I was the best archer in our hamlet.”

Grenn laughed as Jon walked to the boy, handing him a wooden sword and pointing to a discarded shield. “Pick that up and stand here,” Jon directed. “Put your right foot front,” he continued, nudging the boy’s feet gently into a staggered stance with the toe of his boot. “Right—let’s see what you can do.”

_Probably not much—but it was worth a try. The boy would need all the help he could get if he wanted to survive the winter._

Olly lifted his shield tentatively—keen on learning though obviously still a bit mistrusting of Jon. Jon recognized the look, understanding the boy’s animosity towards the Free Folk and wariness of Jon by extension. He thought back to the encounter Olly and Tormund had shared in the cells and took a patient breath before nodding.

Responsively, the boy took several shuffled steps forward and hacked his sword in a few crude strokes—his shield drooping inattentively in his left hand. Jon winced disappointedly and put his sword pointedly to Olly’s neck. “Get your shield up.”

“It’s too heavy,” the boy complained.

Olly’s weak protest immediately triggered a sense of fraternal protectiveness in Jon—reminding him of Bran’s childish griping as he had practiced marksmanship in Winterfell’s courtyard so many afternoons ago. 

_Those days were long gone._

“If it wasn’t heavy, it wouldn’t stop a sword, so get it up,” Jon said sternly.

Olly’s expression hardened and he sent a few more determined hits Jon’s way (his shield still held ineffectively low), before being knocked to the ground with ease.

“Jon, he’s just a steward…” Grenn said, justifying Olly’s lack of skill with almost humorously reluctant honesty.

Jon exhaled deeply. “So was I,” he said gruffly, extending a hand to the boy on the ground. “Come on, Olly. Try it again. Drive at me—” Jon hesitated and tousled the mud from Olly’s hair as he used to do with Arya’s, “—and keep your shield up.”

His ears flushing with color, Olly dragged his shield into its proper position and resumed his attempts.

“Lord Snow, what do you think you’re doing?” Alliser Thorne’s gravelly voice interrupted coldly.

Jon shut his eyes in a brief effort to gather composure before adjusting his posture. Standing proud, he spoke firmly. “Grenn and I were helping him.”

“Grenn’s a ranger—you’re a deserter. Why don’t you go back to your wildling bitch and leave The Watch alone?” Alliser said cruelly. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Jon stiffened. “Someone has to train them.” He narrowed his gaze indignantly—eyes clouded with anger beneath the shelf of his dark brow.

Thorne looked down, holding Jon’s stare with malice. “And that someone isn’t you.”

_Of everything that threatens the realms of men—white walkers, ice spiders, loathsomely greedy kings, robbers and rapers—of course Ser Alliser is most angered by Jon Snow teaching a young boy to properly defend himself._

Clenching his jaw, Jon’s temples pulsed angrily. He stepped in close—his chin tilted aggressively—never breaking eye contact.

The harsh lines of Thorne’s porous face tightened bitterly in response. “Go on you traitor’s bastard,” he said—his beady eyes thinning hatefully. “Give me an excuse.”

Jon’s full lips trembled with rage and he paused—collecting himself. After several tense seconds, Jon stood down and stalked past Thorne towards the castle’s gate.

The wind was picking up and Jon’s breath came in sharp, sullen pants as he continued forth. He stripped off his training guards—throwing them into the mud where they landed dejectedly with a splat. Jon’s footsteps slowed as he neared the southern fence.

Sam was walking towards Jon, leaving Pyp at the entrance in the company of a woman clad in a thinly hooded crimson cloak. She was tall and angular with long red hair framing high cheekbones and harshly sloping lips.

_She was no wildling…_

“Who is she?” Jon asked quietly as Sam reached him.

“She’s a priestess from Asshai,” Sam blustered. “Says visions brought her here.”

“Visions?”

Sam’s jowls bounced as he shook his head incredulously—his eyes rolling with amused dismissal. “It’s what she says—I’m off to fetch Maester Aemon—let him know.”

Jon nodded, chewing on the side of his cheek nervously as he continued towards Pyp and the stranger. Her presence made him decidedly uncomfortable and he had yet to even hear a word from her mouth.

“Hello, m’lady.” Jon bowed his head respectfully.

The woman’s glowing eyes lit up hungrily, matching the ruby necklace resting just between the curves of her collarbones. She looked Jon up and down.

“You’re a bastard,” she said knowingly, catching Jon off guard. Pyp shifted his feet awkwardly.

“Aye, m’lady… my name is Jon Snow—I’m Ned Stark’s son.” Jon answered, his eyes squinting skeptically. The woman looked as though she could see right through him.

“Ned Stark’s son?” The tenor of her voice was icy despite the heat of her breath. “Are you a virgin, Jon Snow?” she asked.

_Well that’s very forward…_

Jon’s brow rose in surprise, but he answered truthfully nonetheless. “No.”

“Good.”

An uncomfortable silence permeated the air and the sleet intensified. “You’re not cold, m’lady?” Jon said, his eyes grazing over the threadbare fabric of her cloak.

“Never—The Lord’s fire lives within me, Jon Snow… Feel,” she demanded, grabbing Jon’s burned hand and shucking off his glove before he could protest. 

Jon sucked in a breath as the cold wind whipped over his flesh, only to hiss again as his hand was pressed to the unnatural warmth of her cheek.

_It felt good._

His head began to swim and his blood heated indecently. They stood like that for a few seconds before Jon snapped to reality, jerking his hand quickly back to his side where he flexed his fingers restlessly.

“His fire brought me here, Jon Snow—his visions.” Lady Melisandre said—a seductive smile on her face.

Jon took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. “Forgive me, m’lady, but I don’t trust in visions.”

“No?” she said—her voice teasing as she cocked her head. “Tell me, how many nights do you share your wolf’s skin—do you see through his eyes?”

Jon blanched noticeably—his mouth slacking with uneasy curiosity. Pyp looked to Jon with blatant confusion.

“Some nights,” Jon nodded slowly as he tried to keep his voice even, but the woman’s questions—her entire presence—were becoming more and more unsettling. “If you’ll excuse me—“ he said hastily, ducking to the side and walking through the gate in the direction of his camp. Jon didn’t look back.

A figure approached him from the distance and Jon could only just make out Ygritte’s red hair against the silhouette of the shallow tent nestled in the snowfall of the tree line.

“Who’s that then?” Ygritte called over the wind as she closed the space between them.

Jon ran a hand through his damp hair. “She’s a red priestess—from Asshai,” he said softly.

“Ass-what?” Ygritte laughed. 

Jon grinned faintly. “Asshai—it’s probably the furthest place from here in the entire world.”

“Well, she seemed friendly,” Ygritte said—her thin brows furrowing almost angrily. “You’re blushing, Jon Snow.”

She ran the back of her hand across his cheek and Jon laced his fingers through hers, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.

_Gods, had he left his glove with the red woman?_

Their hands still entwined, Ygritte eyed Jon warily. “You alright?” she asked.

Jon nodded—an unconvincing smile crossing his lips. Ygritte scoffed and took his chin between her thumb and forefinger, turning his head gingerly from side to side.

She rolled her eyes and dropped her grip.

“I’m goin’ ta sleep with Gilly in the castle tonight,” Ygritte said matter-of-factly. 

Surprised alarm crept across Jon’s features. The priestess had rattled him and he didn’t like the thought of being alone.

“Since the Free Folk been marchin’, she says some o’ yer old brothers ‘ave been givin’ her trouble… and Sam’s not caught a wink o’ sleep—tryin’ ta keep watch over her and the baby at night.”

It had been several days since the Free Folk’s procession had begun and Jon guessed it would take a few more before the wildlings would finish passing through in their entirety—Sam wouldn’t be able to stay awake forever.

“I figure I’d give him a break,” she said. “It’s just one night—I’ll be back ta warm yer bed tomorrow,” Ygritte said, kissing the tip of Jon’s raw nose and walking towards the castle without another word. 

If he weren’t so shaken, Jon would have been considerably warmed by her selflessness for someone she barely knew, but as it was, his stomach just churned nervously. He watched her retreat.

After a few paces, Ygritte stopped to face him again. “And keep your hands to yerself, Jon Snow,” she yelled. “I see ya touchin’ another woman again and I might just get jealous!” She winked before turning on her heel and resuming her steps.

Jon swallowed grimly.


	27. XXVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Another dream sequence/some dialogue pretty much word-for-word from GRRM/the TV series in the 2nd POV.
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Attempted rape/sexual assault.

**Ygritte:**

“Does he always cry this much?” Ygritte asked nervously as little Sam wriggled in her uncertain embrace, hot tears staining his soft cheeks.

Gilly took the wailing child from Ygritte, her front teeth peaking out from the bow of her rosy lips as a warm smile stretched across her face. “Well he is a baby… They all cry like this.”

“Oh good, so this is normal then—thought he just didn’t like me face.” Ygritte laughed nervously.

A candle flickered warm light from the corner of the small room. Sitting on the bed, Gilly uncovered her breast and began to nurse Sam, who suckled noisily as he calmed.

“’As he got teeth yet?” Ygritte asked, craning her neck to look for herself.

Gilly nodded. “He’s got two little ones… They’re right sharp,” she winced.

Ygritte dropped her head and stared awkwardly at her hands in her lap. “Does Sam help ya out? Ya know, with the baby?”

“Sam’s been amazin’—always lookin’ out for me and little Sam. I’d be ‘avin a hard time without ‘im… Well, a _harder_ time.”

Ygritte chewed on her lip—feeling edgy as she thought of her own situation. Her blood was late—by about a fortnight. In the beginning, it was easy to deny the possibility of a pregnancy (largely because she was so consumed with concerns over Jon’s safety—his status at Castle Black), but as she’d woken up each day since his return, her smallclothes still unsoiled, the truth was beginning to settle in.

She’d not yet worked up the courage to tell Jon, almost hoping that if she ignored the reality it might go away. And if she was being honest with herself, the desire to stay the night with Gilly was partially in her own self-interest; thinking that being forced to confront the idea of motherhood might give her some clarity of thought.

But, spending time with Gilly and the baby wasn’t relieving her anxieties quite as she’d hoped. In fact, if anything, now, Ygritte felt even more tense—more vulnerable—than she had before she’d stepped foot in the small room.

_Gods, two teeth already…_

Ygritte’s knees bounced and her legs jittered as she tried to calm her breathing.

“Did it hurt—giving birth?”

“O’ course it did. I screamed somethin’ terrible… Why d’ya keep askin’ me all this?”

“No reason—I—“

“Are you goin’ ta have a baby?” Gilly asked, a sly smile on her lips.

Ygritte’s face paled and she nodded slowly. “I must be—I’ve… I’ve missed my blood.”

“Is it Jon’s?”

“O’ course it’s Jon’s,” Ygritte said indignantly. “Gods, the way he’s always stickin’ it in me, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner.” She put her head in her hands.

“Well it’s goin’ to be alright,” Gilly chuckled. “And he’ll be around ta help ya.”

Ygritte’s head swam as she sat there. 

_Gilly’s right—he’ll be around._

She lifted her head, looking to Gilly. “Gilly, please don’t tell him. I’ve not told him yet—I… Fuck... Were ya scared? You know, when ya found out?”

“I’m still scared… But it gets easier. I don’t always know what I’m doin’, but I know there isn’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for him—you’ll see.”

She took a shaky breath. “Aye.”

_She’ll see._

***

**Jon:**

“Jon?”

The call came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but not without urgency or strength.

_Can a shout be silent?_

Jon turned his head, searching for Bran, but there was nothing… Only a weirwood tree. It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and hairline cracks. 

Wary, Jon circled the smooth white trunk until he came to a face. Red eyes stared back at him—his brother’s eyes.

_Had Bran always had three eyes?_

Jon sniffed at the tree, smelling something terrible—smelling death. He bared his fangs.

“Jon Snow.”

It was a different voice now—a woman’s—cool and milky. He felt himself drifting vaguely into consciousness as a weight settled on his hips. Warm hands began to rub slow circles across the muscles of his chest.

Jon’s head swam pleasantly as he floated from his dream, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and arousal stirring in his belly.

“I thought you were staying with Gilly tonight,” Jon murmured—his voice gravelly and his heavy eyelids fluttering sluggishly.

“Now whatever gave you that impression?” the stony voice responded coolly.

_That’s not Ygritte._

Jon’s eyes shot open and he grunted with shock as he met the predatory gaze of the Red Priestess—her crimson tendrils floating seductively above him.

Jerking beneath her, Jon let out a strangled cry. “What are you doing?”

Melisandre put a finger to his lips and pushed her hips firmly into his. Jon mewled with surprise and self-loathing as his cock twitched obviously.

“When the Lord of Light made us male and female—two parts of a greater whole,” she began, unlacing her dress’s bodice with long, ivory fingers. She pulled aside the scarlet fabric to reveal a pair of perky breasts; each capped salaciously with a pinkly flushing nipple.

Hardening even more so, Jon tried (unsuccessfully) to sink his hips away from her. His head pulsed thickly, feeling heavy and wooly. 

_Was he still dreaming?_

She smiled mockingly and leaned in close to him—her lips only a breath away from his. “In our joining, there’s power—the power to make life, the power to make light,” she rubbed a hand along his torso, “…The power to cast shadows.”

Through the furs of his pallet, Jon could feel his shoulder blades digging uncomfortably into the solidly frosted ground. His breathing became short and ragged as he squirmed beneath her, desperately willing his body to calm.

Heart racing, he swallowed deeply and shook his head assuredly. “I can’t.”

Melisandre tilted her head tauntingly. “Why?” she asked, circling her thumb around the plane of his chin—her voice chipper.

“I don’t want this,” Jon panted, raising his eyes with the seriousness of his tone. His tongue ran nervously along his bottom lip.

She cocked an eyebrow in ridicule and ducked her head to stare pointedly at his smallclothes—his erection straining clearly against the confines of the greyed cloth.

“I love another,” he said firmly, his eyebrows furrowing as he blushed furiously.

Melisandre clicked her tongue dismissively. “There’s power in you… You resist it and that’s your mistake. Embrace it,” she said, reaching for his crotch.

His breath hitching, Jon reached out his hand and grabbed her harshly by the wrist. “Stop.” The dream-like quality of their encounter had all but disappeared and he was growing angry.

Melisandre sighed, sitting back on her heels and lifting herself from Jon’s prone form with an exaggerated eye-roll.

He pressed his hands against the ground, quickly sliding backwards and pushing himself to a sitting position; never taking his eyes off her.

The Priestess redid the ties of her dress and moved bitterly towards the flaps of the tent. Turning around she met his stare. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Jon’s mouth parted in surprise as she slipped out into the night, sending a sliver of moonlight splashing briefly across his slim legs.

He sat in silence as his heart pounded furiously in his chest—the throb in his head and groin no less intense. Jon groaned angrily and slammed a fist into the ground.

_Gods, he was shaking._


	28. XXVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are gonna kick off/take a turn next chapter. Just a bit of fun/some honesty beforehand.

**Ygritte:**

The snow-banks had thickened well enough to scale the bark of the forest trees, leaving clumps of ice accumulating sparsely as the trees stretched their blackened trunks into the early morning sky.

Ygritte trudged her way through the pink snow, traipsing a line of deep footprints meandering around the glacial brush. She had left Gilly just as the sun crested above the horizon line, heading past the temporary cluster of Free Folk shelters to relieve herself.

Jon’s and her shared tent rested on the other side of the castle, but Ygritte found herself not quite ready to return. The pregnancy’s realism still weighing heavily on her mind, she sought the silence which solitude allowed.

Thus, she walked slowly, images of crying babies flickering in and out of her mind as she snatched weakly at the incomprehensibility of a new life growing inside her. Not one to often dwell on her own feelings, the raw analysis which pending motherhood required was decidedly uncomfortable for Ygritte.

_Pissin’s better than thinkin’._

She shrugged her bow from her shoulder and, shoving her breeches down as she dropped, Ygritte squatted in the snow. She tottered for a few moments, wincing as the wind whistled over her bare skin.

The smell of urine crept into her nostrils—sharp and acidic. Her nose wrinkled, its graceful upturn collapsing in on itself with the reflex.

Just as she finished lacing her britches, she felt the heavy clap of a gloved hand on her shoulder.

Jerking with surprise, Ygritte didn’t hesitate before throwing an elbow forcefully behind her, spinning on her heels only a split-second after the blow made contact.

“Mmmph!” The figure fell to the ground.

_Fuck’s sake._

Jon knelt in the snow before her, his hands tucked between his legs as he coughed hoarsely.

“Jon Snow! What the fuck are ya doin’, creepin’ up on me like that?” Ygritte cried in agitated relief, crouching next to him and pulling roughly on his shoulder.

Eyes shut tightly beneath a deeply creased forehead; Jon lifted his head with noticeable effort to face her. “I wasn’t creeping,“ he groaned.

Feeling a mixture of exasperation and pity (which ultimately settled as annoyance) Ygritte stood up and rubbed a hand across her brow.

Meanwhile, Jon shifted his weight miserably from knee to knee. “Ygritte, how in seven hells did you not hear me coming—I wasn’t exactly being quiet about it.”

“I was busy, in case ya hadn’t notice—or do ya oft make a point of sneakin’ up on women with their britches round their ankles, Jon Snow?”

He moaned, leaning forward so that his head was hanging just an inch or so above the snow she had yellowed.

“Careful!” Ygritte yelled frustratedly as she pushed his head away with enough force to knock him over.

In pained retaliation, Jon shoved her back, grunting loudly with the effort as his back slammed into the snow.

_Alright! Next time she’ll just let him fall face-first into her piss._

Ygritte threw her hands up with irritation and scoffed bitterly. She began pacing—collecting her bow and pulling her hood up before crouching once again next to Jon, whose chest was rising and falling with heavy pants.

His forearm lay across his face—the other hand still cradling his genitals.

Ygritte sighed resignedly. “You alright?”

Jon’s eyes opened as he cocked an eyebrow with surprise.

Rolling her own eyes, Ygritte pulled his arm down to get a better look at him. She ran her thumb tenderly along his cheekbone.

“I suppose I shouldn’t hold my breath for an apology,” Jon said, his dark eyes meeting hers as his mouth tugged itself into a downturned smile.

She laughed tersely. “Not until you apologize for scarin’ the livin’ piss out o’ me.”

Jon grunted in affirmation, nodding expectantly.

“What are ya doin’ out here anyway?” she asked.

“I was just going for a walk is all,” he said, pushing himself into a sitting position. “I was sort of hoping I’d find you… I—“ Jon dropped his gaze.

Ygritte stiffened concernedly as his expression transformed from one of pain to obvious emotional anguish.

“What is it?” she queried—her tone softer than it had been.

“The Red Woman—she…”

“…She what, Jon Snow?”

“She came into my tent last night.”

Ygritte’s breath caught in her throat as her head began to pulse with emotional adrenaline. “Did she?” she asked accusatorially.

“Nothing happened,” Jon said firmly.

Ygritte exhaled with relief. “You’re sure?”

“Aye,” he nodded, letting out a husky laugh. “Though not for her lack of trying… I pretty much had to push her off of me,” he said, biting his lip as he looked up at her. “She kept going on about light or power or… Something…” Jon trailed off.

Jaw clenching, Ygritte’s eyes darted furiously back and forth as she processed his words. In all fairness, it was Jon who most deserved to be upset, as he was the one who had faced the assault, but in the heat of the moment Ygritte’s jealousy raged and she blindly channeled all her energy into anger.

“I’ll kill her,” Ygritte finally spoke, her voice trembling with quiet malice.

“I’ve no objections.” Jon said, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “She makes me wary… Gods, are all ginger women this desperate to get into my smallclothes?” He joked with a tired smile.

“They better not be.” Ygritte laughed before her face pulled itself into a look of rather pallid sobriety. “You’re mine, Jon Snow—and don’t you forget it… Or I’ll hit ya again,” she said, balling her hand into a fist and shaking it threateningly in what was (mostly) a jest.

“Please don’t…” Jon said with seriousness. “As it is, I don’t think I can have any children,” he smiled grimly.

Her heartbeat all but stopped. “I don’t… You don’t ‘ave to worry about that, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said shakily as she pulled distractedly at her fraying cuticles.

_Gods… Hadn’t this morning already yielded enough honest revelations? The sun had only just risen…_

His brow knitted questioningly. “What do you mean?”

She looked pointedly at him, her lips quivering above the point of her chin as she blinked back the beginnings of tears. “Jon Snow—“

Surprised at the suddenness of her emotion, Jon scooted forward, reaching out and sliding his burned palm across the line of her jaw.

“What is it?”

“I—I’m goin’ ta have a baby… Yer baby.”

Jon leaned back on his haunches, his mouth dropping in surprise before widening into a smile that reached his eyes. "Are you sure?" He asked, the grin still stretched across his face.

"Am I sure? O' course I'm sure! Why else would I be tellin' ya?" Her annoyance at his question did well in quelling her tears. "I've missed my blood."

"Right—sorry." He ran a hand through his curly hair.

Ygritte chewed her lip nervously as she watched him.

Slowly, Jon’s face fell with what Ygritte expected were his own baby-related fears and worries. His smile faltered. “How did this—?” He began.

Ygritte barked a laugh. “How did this happen? Gods, are you thick? Ya finish in about two min—”

“Okay!” Jon stopped her. “I know _how_ it happened… I just… I’m sorry… Are you alright?”

Ygritte stared at her fingernails and stayed quiet, thinking back to their time in Winterfell. She briefly recalled a conversation they’d had about having children those many fortnights ago—briefly recalled feeling positively.

Lying on the feather mattress with Jon had made the idea of motherhood seem so different then; so distant. But if she were asked again in this moment if she wanted a child, Ygritte wasn’t sure she’d say yes.

_Nobody was askin’ now… And want it or not, this was happening._

Jon shuffled on his knees and wrapped an arm around Ygritte’s shoulder as he settled next to her. “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his head towards her. “I should have been more careful—shouldn’t have—“

Ygritte shook her head and met his stare with a deep exhale. “Don’t be sorry, Jon Snow. We both should 'ave been more careful,” she said. “This was bound ta happen eventually… I’m just scared… of all of it… of carryin’ it,” She gesticulated the roundness of a heavily pregnant stomach, “of birthin’ it… Of bein’ a mother…” Ygritte laughed bitterly.

Jon nodded curtly, his eyes swimming deeply. “It’s a dark world we’ll bring this child into… Winter is comin’ and it’s only getting darker…” 

_It’s like he’s thinkin’ out loud._

Jon continued—his voice breaking. “I can’t imagine _the bastard of a bastard and a wildling_ will have an easy life,” he said, delivering the words with saddened venom.

“Oi, hold on, Jon Snow!” Ygritte said, elbowing him hard in the ribs. “I’ve got a baby growin’ inside me who is gonna crawl its way out o’ me cunt into a world filled with traitor kings and the walking dead and you’re worried about the babe’s surname?” She finished, scathingly.

Jon gave a short and reluctant laugh, rubbing his hands soothingly along his ribcage.

“I’ll hold hands with ya and say some words under a tree if that makes ya feel better, but you’re mine and I’m yours and this doesn’t change that. Our babe might be comin’ into a world o’ darkness, but at least it’ll ‘ave two parents around who care for it—that’s more than you or I ever ‘ad—it don’t matter what fancy lords or ladies think of us _or_ its name.”

“I’m sorry, Ygritte—you’re right—I’m just… I’m scared too.” Jon said with a searching shrug of his shoulders. “I… It will be so hard… and I just want to protect you and the baby.” His face was scrunched into one of those classic ‘Jon Snow is miserably honorable’ looks.

“Protect me?” Ygritte cocked her elbow, preparing to strike Jon again.

“Would you stop hitting me?” He cried angrily, blocking her blow with his hands. “Twice today is more than enough!”

“I don’t need protectin’, Jon Snow,” she spat, eyeing him crossly.

He rolled his eyes. “You don’t need protecting—I know, I know—“

“I’m not fragile—I don’t want to be treated any different because of this!”

“I know you don’t… But it is different, Ygritte—It will be different,” Jon said.

Ygritte snorted and rested her head against Jon’s shoulder as he put a hand tentatively to her belly.

“Fuck,” he exhaled shakily.

Ygritte thought of their future as they sat there in complicated silence.

“When the Free Folk have finished movin’, we’ll go south, Jon Snow—settle in The Gift and wait for winter to come in earnest.”

_The settling wouldn’t be forever. And in a perfect world, she and Jon would raise the babe north of The Wall with a nomadic lifestyle and unbridled freedom… But this wasn’t a perfect world._

“We can’t sit forever though—and babe or not, we’ll ‘ave ta fight when the time comes.” Ygritte said seriously.

“Aye,” Jon nodded—his eyebrows knitting as he swallowed hard. Gradually, a smile crossed his face. “Ygritte, I’m scared—hells—but I’m—“ he laughed, “we’re going to have a child.”

She smiled in return. “ _I’ll_ be havin’ the child, Jon Snow, but you better be around ta help take care of it.”

“I will be.” He leaned in and kissed her softly on the mouth, breeching her lips tenderly with his tongue as she melted into his touch.

Ygritte was pushed slowly to the ground as Jon slid his body on top of hers. He pulled back from their kiss, brushing the hair from her face and smiling warmly.

Their panting breaths left plumes of vapor floating momentarily between them and Jon kissed the tip of her nose before dropping a hand in between her legs and swirling his fingers gently.

Heat pooled in Ygritte’s stomach and she arched her back in the snow as Jon pressed his lips to her neck, just barely grazing his teeth against her skin before gliding down and burrowing his head in between her legs (tugging down her breeches as he did so).

After a few minutes, Ygritte peaked—the anxiety of her pregnancy dissolving almost completely as her orgasm shuddered to a finish.

Sitting up, Ygritte reached for Jon’s crotch, but he jerked back. “It’s alright—later,” he said, standing up and adjusting himself as he offered his free hand towards her. “Let’s get out of this snow.”

Jon pulled Ygritte to her feet and she wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I love ya, Jon Snow… More o’ that with yer tongue and I might just forgive ya for puttin’ a baby in me,” she winked.

He grabbed her hand warmly and they set off for Castle Black, weaving their way out of the bristly foliage and through the castle gates.

Ghost trotted over with a low growl before sniffing at Ygritte’s stomach curiously. Running his fingers through the direwolf’s fur, Jon looked to Ygritte. “Do you think he can smell it—the baby?”

“Don’t be daft, Jon Snow—he probably just smells my minge.” Ygritte said dismissively as she scratched at Ghost’s ears.

Jon let out a surprised laugh and knelt before his great wolf.

_His only link to Winterfell, to his family, to youth…_

Aside from her, Ygritte guessed Ghost was Jon’s closest companion, and also one of the few creatures (human or otherwise) who could genuinely comfort Jon Snow into a relaxed and smiling disposition.

“Lord Snow!” a cruel tongue called out, breaking Ygritte from her thoughts. They turned to see Thorne approaching, his brisk walk kicking up rubble and ice with his advance. “This is no place for wild beasts. Tie him up or I’ll let Hobbs throw him in tonight’s stew.”

_What an absolute cunt of a man._

Ghost snapped his jaws in Thorne’s direction as Ygritte cocked her head in disbelief. “Are ya scared of ‘im?” she asked Thorne, who slitted his beady eyes angrily in response.

“No, wildling, I’m not scared of a bastard’s wolf.” He spat, shifting once again towards Jon. “Might be best to tie your bitch up too, Snow,” he finished, shoving a long rope forcefully into Jon’s hands and stalking away without giving either one of them a chance to respond.

Jon gritted his teeth and eyed Thorne’s receding back with disdain.

“Fucker,” Ygritte hissed with angry shock. “Gods, why anyone thought it was a good idea to trap a bunch o’ men in a bleak castle and make ‘em swear off girls, I’ll never know.”

Jon sighed and shook his head. “Come on, Ghost,” he said reluctantly, clapping a hand against his thigh and heading towards the southern gate.

“I’ll catch up with ya, Jon Snow—I’m just goin’ ta grab us some breakfast,” she called after him.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle and Ygritte spun around quickly.

The Red Priestess stood on an elevated, wooden walkway; her crimson cloak billowing in the wind as she watched Jon and Ghost walk away.

_Whore._

Ygritte sneered from below and shouldered her bow to position, notching an arrow and pointing it directly towards the woman’s heart.

“Oi!” she shouted, snapping the woman’s attention towards her.

The Priestess eyed Ygritte coldly.

They stood there like that—facing off in stony silence for what felt like an eternity. Neither woman blinked.

Shifting the angle of her hold only slightly, Ygritte abruptly released her bowstring—effectively lodging the arrow at the Red Woman’s feet, where it pinned her dress to the floorboards, causing its fabric to writhe about the arrow’s shaft with a dance of the wind.

Ygritte smirked victoriously. “Teach you to mess with my fuckin’ family,” she said under her breath, before delivering a mock bow and turning on her heel in the direction of the kitchens.

_One wildling, one bastard, an albino direwolf, and a growing baby—her fuckin' family._


	29. XXIX

**Jon:**

Jon Snow stood north of The Wall as dusk’s light faded, bathing the tips of the Haunted Forest’s conifers in rich hues of blue and orange. The approaching night was still; Jon a lonely witness to the solemnness of its silence. Even the wind had settled.

Ygritte rested in their tent—a bout of nausea causing her to retire early. For a time, she had laid there—bitterly hurling teasing threats towards Jon as he trailed his fingers soothingly along her back, laughing in spite of himself. Eventually however, he had taken his leave, flashing a humble grin and apologizing with sincerity for the culpable role he played in her sickness.

Outside, Ghost had growled restlessly, tugging his rope taut and snapping as Jon emerged from the canvas shelter. And though this behavior was uncharacteristic of the wolf’s usual temperament, as of late, Ghost had been constantly on edge—they all had been. What, with the political tensions simmering at the Wall, the growing bairn in Ygritte’s belly, and winter’s imminent approach, who could blame them?

Half a fortnight had passed since Jon had learned of the pregnancy, and so far Ygritte’s coping mechanisms had included many solitary hunts, several prolonged bickering episodes with Tormund, and a measurably sharp increase in the quantity of insults she made at Jon’s expense.

_Fair enough._

Jon on the other hand, spent much of his days aiding in the conclusion of the Free Folk’s passage, which had finally seen its end just a few nights past.

Standing in the evening light, he watched an elk patter light footsteps around the base of a dead alder tree—the animal’s gnarled antlers mirroring the twisting stretch of the tree’s upturned branches. After a minute, Jon averted his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable of his role as a voyeur, and turned his thoughts back to the wildlings.

Most of the Free Folk had begun to scatter and settle around The Gift (just as Jon and Ygritte planned to do shortly)—leaving behind the charred remnants of hundreds of campfires dispersed around the walls of Castle Black.

Meanwhile, Mance and Tormund had left for Eastwatch just this morning, intending on leading a small boating party to Hardhome. The settlement sheltered the last thousand or so wildlings north of The Wall, and Mance ultimately set out to ensure their safe passage south by way of The Watch’s ships (despite the audible protest from many of The Watch’s brothers).

At Jon’s suggestion, Sam had passed along his stash of dragonglass as a measure of precaution. 

_He hoped to gods they wouldn’t need to use it._

Jon exhaled deeply as his mind skipped back to his time at Craster’s Keep. The memory of the White Walker’s silhouette standing amidst the frozen trees sent a shiver down his spine.

_It felt so long ago—those early days with The Watch._

Jon was older now, his youthfully pouting disposition unconsciously maturing into a sort of brooding resilience with age. He’d faced many challenges—lost so much—and generally, he had hardened from it. But despite this growing callousness, standing by The Wall now, Jon still believed in people; believed in goodness in spite of winter’s indifferent chill.

No longer the self-pitying greenboy he once was, Jon Snow was growing into a person he could be proud of—whom Ygritte could be proud of and whom his unborn child would respect.

_A child._

The past week had allowed some of Jon’s muddled thoughts to clarify in his mind. Their baby would arrive with winter, its fragile life somehow already taking vague priority in Jon’s mind over all else.

Its birth would mean sacrifice. For Jon, it promised the leaving of his post as a liaison (at least for awhile)—further forfeiting a degree of honor for the sake of love. And for Ygritte, the babe would further inhibit her freedom.

At this moment, the full weight of their future didn’t quite hit Jon, but he felt its presence stirring, and it scared him—more so even than ice spiders.

_Gods... He’d take a Walker over a giant ice spider any day._

Jon jumped suddenly—startled from his musings as the iron of the gate screeched to a forceful close behind him.

He turned to meet the dark glare of Ser Alliser, whose stance was backed by a dozen other brothers in black.

Jon’s brow furrowing, he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and ran his tongue nervously across his bottom lip.

_Something wasn’t right._

“Ser Alliser?” Jon questioned cautiously, his voice strong and husky.

Thorne advanced, pulling a crossbow from his cloak as he did so, and raising it towards Jon.

Jon’s mouth went dry as understanding settled in, his heart thumping as he took Longclaw slowly from his sheath—the draw of metal humming richly.

“Don’t do this,” Jon said; his warning not so much a plea, as an appeal for justice.

The words had barely left his mouth before the snap of the crossbow sounded; the point of its fired arrow puncturing Jon’s left lung with enough force to knock him to his knees with a groan.

“It’s over, Snow,” Thorne said, moving to tower over Jon’s kneeling form.

Teeth gritted in pain, but adrenaline surging, Jon defensively swung his sword through the air, connecting its sharp blade to the meat of Ser Alliser’s thigh.

The man shouted with rage, stumbling with the blow as the other brothers descended upon him; Ser Janos yanking the bow urgently from Thorne’s hands.

The air whistled from Jon’s deflating lung and it was difficult to breathe. But regardless, Jon struggled to a stand, extending Longclaw resolutely towards the approaching crowd with a shaky hold—his feet planted firmly in the snow.

_He wouldn’t go down without a fight._

However, with another clap of the crossbow biting through the evening air, Jon was rocked backwards—a second arrow lodging itself in the shoulder of his sword-arm as a simpering grin crossed Slynt’s face.

Jon took a few staggering steps back, his grip weakening around Longclaw’s hilt, and he surveyed his former brothers—his eyes swimming with the pain of betrayal.

Bowen Marsh moved quickly, kicking the sword from Jon’s limp hand as he pulled a dull blade from his tunic.

Marsh plunged the dagger into Jon’s chest, but held his gaze, almost as a sign of respect. “I’m sorry, boy,” he hesitated, “It’s for The Watch.”

Jon grunted as Marsh removed his blade, and fell again to his knees.

Wheezing, he scrambled in the snow towards Longclaw—now lying discarded a few paces in front of him.

“Not so fast, bastard,” Slynt sneered, sending a well-placed kick to Jon’s stomach, simultaneously driving a knife upwards as Jon doubled over with pain. “For The Watch,” Slynt said viciously, spitting on Jon’s face before withdrawing the blade from Jon's belly.

The mucus rolled slowly down Jon's pale cheek.

One by one the men surged forth, driving their daggers into the hard muscle of Jon’s abdomen and concluding their blows with the simple benediction: “For The Watch.”

Jon’s consciousness was beginning to fade, and merely staying upright (even on his knees) was consuming all his energy. He tasted blood.

When most of the other brothers had done their part, Thorne limped slowly to Jon, stooping low and looking into Jon’s dark eyes.

“For the Watch,” he said soberly, sinking his knife crudely beneath Jon’s ribcage.

Mustering the last of his strength and lifting his head nobly, Jon looked on, grunting weakly as the crowd began to part and Olly walked towards him—his footsteps heavy and reluctant.

Jon's heart sank and he took a deep breath, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Olly,” he croaked desperately—beseeching humanity.

The boy trembled as he blinked back tears, but with a wave of hardened decision crossing his face, Olly stabbed his short blade into Jon’s heart.

Jon fell to his back, his world dimming. He was vaguely aware of the men’s retreating voices.

The blood pooled around his black hair, darkening the snow a crimson so rich it was almost black. Jon’s eyes glazed over, and his lips parted slightly as his final breaths rattled in his broken body.

_He was dying._

Memories flickered through his transient mind—the way the light blinked through the leaves of the Godswood; bathing warm the white and red—the taste of Ygritte as she first kissed him in that cave; as he first kissed her—chasing Ghost (just a puppy then) through the hallways at Winterfell and praying Lady Catelyn wouldn’t come across them; her best mittens ruined, and clenched tightly in the direwolf’s mouth as they ran.

A howl sounded from far away.

“Ghost,” Jon called out vacantly.

_Ygritte… Their child…_

Jon Snow died just as the sun dropped fully beneath the distant horizon.


	30. XXX

**Samwell:**

“Take my hand!” Sam shouted over the wind, turning and extending his leather-clad fingers in Gilly’s direction. His heart was racing.

The storm surged around them as she grabbed hold of his lead; flashing snowflakes and driving ice whiting out the darkness of the night.

Sam could scarcely see two steps in front of him, but he could just make out the sound of his younger namesake’s cries; the babe’s wailing largely lost in the fury of the tumultuous snowfall as they trudged blindly onward.

Maester Aemon (blushing with the onset of what Sam presumed to be a fever) had awoken him just an hour ago bearing the news of the mutiny and of Jon’s murder. He'd told Sam to rouse Gilly—rouse the baby—and leave immediately for the Citadel under the cover of night.

Castle Black would no longer be safe for a wildling woman, and so, stunned and grieving, Sam had armed himself with a short sword and fled with his ramshackle family in tow.

Pushing through the blizzard now, Sam thought of Jon; of his decision to forsake his vows for the ones he loved. And in this moment, Sam understood his friend better than he ever had before.

_Look where it had gotten him. Jon was dead now—murdered._

Sam’s face paled and he sniffed hardily, carrying on without truly confronting the horror of the night—without truly processing the loss. All he could do was move forward—first to The Nightfort (for the gathering of supplies and to pass along a word of warning to the Free Folk who had taken up defense of the castle) and then to The Citadel.

_Get Gilly to safety. Get little Sam safe._

“Sam! Sam!” Called Gilly from behind.

Sam wheeled around and pulled Gilly close to him. The clumps of snow frosted in her hood were framing her rosy cheeks and despite everything, Sam couldn’t help but think her beautiful.

“Are you alright?” He yelled above the gales.

“Sam—I just remembered—Ygritte… She doesn’t know!” Gilly hollered back. “Sam, she’s pregnant!”

_Seven Bloody Hells._

His face fell. “Pregnant?”

“Aye! She told me not to say nothin’ before—But, Sam…” Little Sam was crying harder now.

_Ygritte would still be in the tent—the one she shared with Jon on the edge of the southern tree line._

“We ‘ave ta tell her about Jon!” Gilly continued; her expression tortured. “Mance and them ‘ave already left—she’s got nobody else!”

Sam nodded gravely, letting out a reluctant groan. He had forgotten about the Free Folk party headed to Hardhome. “You’re right, Gilly—She won’t be safe here,” he tugged her along—his steps moving with more urgency. “But we have to hurry!”

***

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte ran a cold hand across her brow as the wind howled outside. She had awoken abruptly; her sleep disturbed when Ghost began his cries about an hour ago.

And initially, she was irritated—cursing Ghost’s name under her breath and clutching at her stomach as a wave of prenatal nausea washed over her.

But when the wind suddenly picked up, her anger shifted quickly to awe. The blizzard had arrived out of nowhere; ripping through the night’s silence and shaking the canvas of her tent with unbridled violence.

After the tumult had lasted a fair number of minutes, Ygritte realized she could no longer hear Ghost over the strength of the gales.

_She couldn’t very well leave the beast tied up alone out there._

And so, Ygritte poked her head from the flaps of the shelter, her hair whipping wildly about as the whited tempest exploded around her.

“Ghost!” She called, rolling her eyes and stepping from her cover with a hoarse and determined grunt.

_Gods, she couldn’t see a damned thing._

She called for the direwolf again, stumbling her way blindly through the snow and moving towards the ambiguous shape of trees in the onslaught.

Finally, she grabbed hold of the weighty pine’s trunk she sought; its bowed branches beating sharply against her arms with the anger of the storm. Ygritte reached down to the tree’s base, picking up the length of rope already buried deep in the accumulated snow. She pulled it towards her.

Running the end of the short rope between her brittle fingers, Ygritte’s breath caught in her throat. It had come back frayed and connected to nothing—Ghost nowhere in sight.

_It must ‘ave been ripped?_

“Ghost? Ghost!” Ygritte’s heart rate accelerated. “Jon Snow?”

_Had Jon been here? Freed Ghost?_

Grimacing, she made her way back to the tent, stepping headfirst into the shelter and yanking the hides closed tightly behind her. Ygritte shuddered, wrapping some furs across her shoulders as she took a seat.

She sat for some time, her anxiety spiked and the idea of sleep but a distant memory. The world sounded like it was falling apart around her.

Jon wouldn’t be able to make it back to their shelter in this weather, and although she had effectively kicked him out in a fit of annoyance a few hours ago, she now wished she hadn’t.

Unexpectedly, her tent was ripped open. And before Ygritte even had time to unsheath her knife, Samwell Tarly had shouldered his way through its opening and knelt on the furs before her.

His round cheeks were pale—the tips of his thin hair crusted with frost.

“Wha’ are ya doin’ here?” Ygritte asked—her voice conveying the heat of her alarm.

“Ygritte—“ Sam’s voice caught. “—I don’t know how to say… I’m so sorry, but Jon is dead.”

Ygritte’s heart stopped and the sound of the storm; the feel of the furs; the smell of the cold… They all fell away.

“The men of The Watch—there was a mutiny,” Sam continued. “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to leave. Now.”

Ygritte didn’t answer—didn’t breathe. Her head spun.

_Jon Snow… The baby… He…_

Sam shook her. “Ygritte,” he said forcefully. “We have to go.”

Rousing from her shock, she pulled her eyes to survey Sam’s face. “He’s—“ her voice hitched. “—You’re sure?”

Sam nodded. “I’m sure," he said gravely. "Gilly and I are going to The Citadel, but we’re stopping by The Nightfort first—for supplies. And there are Free Folk there who have to be warned—who need to make plans… It’s what Jon would have wanted. Come with us… Please.”

She vaguely recalled that Munda and Hildr had temporarily settled in The Watch’s abandoned castle—awaiting their father’s return from Hardhome and helping man the garrison in the meantime.

“Who—who did it?” Ygritte asked, the dim edges of anger closing in around her paralyzed consciousness.

_Something tangible—something she could process…_

“It doesn’t matter—“

“No! It _does _!” She cried, tears beginning to prick at her eyes. “I’ll ‘ave an arrow for every man involved. I—I—“ She couldn’t speak properly—her thoughts racing a thousand miles a minute.__

_She shouldn’t ‘ave made him leave their tent._

“It’s a shock, I know—but we must leave now, Ygritte. C’mon.” Sam extended his hand forcefully, his gesture carrying more authority than she would have previously guessed the man capable of. “I don’t know what will happen to The Watch, but I _do_ know that you can’t stay. It won’t be safe at Castle Black.”

__Ygrite nodded distantly, her eyes wide. All of the sudden, she yelled out. “Ghost! Sam, he’s not here—he was just outside the tent, but his rope—it…”__

 _ _Sam gave her a sad sort of smile. “If he knows what’s best for him, he’s already left—Ghost is a smart animal.” He wiggled his fingers, gently beckoning her a final time.__

__Ygritte nodded again and taking his hand slowly, she rose to her feet before stepping out into the cold she couldn’t even feel.__

 _ _***__

 _ _**Ygritte:**_ _

__They walked throughout the night, and by morning, the storm had cleared—leaving the world covered in a barren and still blanket of white._ _

__Ygritte focused on her steps—nothing more; her mouth dry and her head pounding, as it had been since the moment her life had shattered._ _

_Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot…_

__She thought again of Jon (something her grieving mind had only briefly allowed at various points throughout their night’s retreat)—of the kneeler’s fool drums and marches—and her blue eyes welled with fresh tears. Blinking them back furiously, Ygritte raised her head to the morning sky, her bottom lip trembling with the overwhelming nature of her loss._ _

__Suddenly, a flash of red crossed the heavens, leaving a thin trail arcing across the fading stars._ _

_A comet?_

__It dawned on Ygritte that she had seen another just like it as a young woman—only a few months before she and Jon had first crossed paths._ _

__Tormund said that the red meant dragons, but to Ygritte in this moment, the comet only signified the blood of the man she loved, the spark of his rare smile (never to be seen again), the baby he would never meet (who she would have to raise alone), and the ruby eyes of his lost wolf…_ _

_The wolf she had to leave behind…_

__And finally breaking—the gravity of Jon’s death hitting her in earnest for the first time just as the comet dissolved beyond the horizon, Ygritte fell to her knees in the snow and began to sob._ _


	31. XXXI

**Ghost (Just Past Sunset—During the Storm):**

Something was wrong—very wrong.

He could feel Jon Snow inside him, but not as it sometimes was during the night—when Jon would dream and share Ghost’s body—when they would run as one through the forest’s trees.

Instead, Jon’s presence felt distant, unconscious, and weak.

Ghost couldn’t see a thing.

The world was white and cold—the winds fast.

He tugged at his rope and howled again.

He could smell blood in the air…

_Jon’s blood._

All of the sudden he saw a flash—a flutter of black—the flap of wings.

Ghost sniffed the air and snapped his head behind him.

There, perched on the tree he was tied to, was a crow.

_With an extra eye?_

He stared at the bird and his head began to fill with images—Jon’s body, bloody and stabbed, a funeral pyre, the red woman who Jon’s mate so despised, and then nothing but darkness.

_He needed to go._

The raven blinked soberly and began to bite at the twine that bound him.

The moment the rope was broken, Ghost sprinted off into the night; following his nose in the direction of Jon’s smell.

***

**Melisandre (Midnight—During the Storm):**

The glow of the torch-fire quivered potently, its light skirting around the snowy divots of Melisandre’s residual footprints—splashing pinks and oranges across the blues of the midnight ice. The storm’s driving snowfall darted about chaotically in the wind.

_It was time._

Melisandre walked to the shrouded form lying just outside the initial reach of her light’s warmth, and bending down slowly, she surveyed the body with careful expectation. Her grip on the torch’s wooden stave tightened.

At sunset, she had watched Jon Snow fall to his knees at the bitter hands of his former brothers—watched Jon shudder his last breath as the blood pooled in the snow around him; as the men of The Watch turned their backs and walked away.

Thinking quickly, she had wrapped Jon in her shawl before dragging his fresh body to the depths of the forest, where she then spent the better part of the past several hours constructing a funeral pyre from frozen logs and brambles.

Now, kneeling before Jon’s body, Melisandre took a deep breath and pulled the heavy cloak from his corpse with measured eagerness, sending a burst of snowflakes jittering wildly in the billowing wind.

Her breath caught.

_R’hllor’s answer…_

Jon Snow’s dark beard framed a look of timeless sorrow, and despite the impassivity of death, his lingering expression was one of loneliness—of pain.

Melisandre found herself smiling coolly, and she rubbed a warm thumb along the arch of his pale, dry lips possessively. His mouth parted ever so slightly—death’s stoicism caught on the swell of his lips.

_This is what The Lord of Light intended…_

Ghost growled warningly and Melisandre snapped her head around to meet the wolf’s angry glare—his eyes burning as red as her own.

_She had almost forgotten he was there..._

The beast sat at the base of a twisted pine.

“Hush, wolf.” Melisandre spoke serenely, never breaking eye contact. “Don’t worry, you’ll soon play your part.”

Only about an hour ago, like an answer to her prayers, Ghost had shown up in the small clearing—a torn rope hanging from around his neck. Obviously distrusting of Melisandre, the wolf had not allowed her to approach him, and instead kept his distance from both her and Jon’s body.

She plunged the torch’s wooden staff securely in the snow just by Jon’s head—its flames canting dramatically as the storm’s winds shifted directions.

Then, returning to the task at hand, Melisandre pulled a thin blade from her bodice and began cutting the bloodied jerkin from Jon’s form, revealing white skin gashed raw and red. The diffused torchlight caressed the lean muscles of his torso, flatly glazing the chiseled plane of his belly.

_The bloodstains suited him._

She sucked her teeth hungrily and lifted Jon by the crooks of his arms; smoothly hauling his limp corpse onto the funeral stack. Melisandre then took a deep breath and plucked the torch from its hold before lowering its blaze to the base of the timbered pallet.

The fan of Jon’s closed lashes rested placidly against his sallow cheeks as the pyre’s flames surged to life around him.

_A beautiful boy…_

Taking a step back, Melisandre observed the flourishing conflagration with wonder—the flames reflecting in the awe of her widened, scarlet eyes.

She watched as the fire crowded his body, the fabric of his britches burning quickly to blackened, tacky ash. Smiling wittingly, Melisandre looked again to the direwolf. The beacon’s crackle sounded crisply from behind her.

“It’s time, wolf,” she said, her voice steady.

Meeting her stare, a sort of serenity seemed to settle in Ghost, who sat back on his haunches submissively; a low growl rolling almost comfortingly from his throat—almost knowingly.

“Lord of Light, come to us in our darkness…” Melisandre began, raising her hands to the skies and keeping her eyes on Ghost; her ruby necklace glowing luminously.

“…After the long summer, darkness will fall heavy on the world…”

Ghost shook the snow from his pelt and traipsed intently towards the pyre—his large paws kicking up snow just as white as the thick of his fur. Against the backdrop of orange flames, the direwolf’s mammoth silhouette possessed striking nobility as he stood before the fire.

“…The cold breath of winter will freeze the seas…”

Melisandre paused her words, watching as the wolf tilted his great head and crooned one long, sorrowful howl—the mist from his breath absorbed instantly by the thick plumes of black smoke around him.

And then, with fearless grace, Ghost leaped into the flames—his fur catching alight almost instantly. Melisandre looked on as he circled Jon’s body, eventually lying down and nestling his broad neck protectively atop Jon’s chest.

The blaze consumed Ghost as his howls screamed out into the night.

“…And the dead shall rise in the North,” Melisandre cried amidst Ghost’s wails. “Lord, cast your light upon us, for the night is dark and full of terrors!”

Her chest heaving, she took several steps back and lost herself in the vicarious dance of the flames.

_Jon Snow—her promised prince._

It was true; Melisandre had been mistaken before… followed Stannis—a false idol. She had fanned his misguided ascension and witnessed his fall.

_But this was different. ___

__The fires had consistently shown snow, and looking at Jon now—his body consumed by smoke and salt amid the fury of a blizzard—she felt her heart swell with the dignifying relief of validation and realized prayers._ _

Jon Snow explicitly fulfilled all the guidelines of the prophecy save one—the blood of the dragon.

 _Curious._

__Melisandre expected that Jon never before had reason to be thankful for his bastard status, but in this case, it was his bastardry which had saved him—the lack of his known lineage making Jon Snow a worthwhile gamble—a possible dragon, yet._ _

_Who had Ned Stark bedded? A whore with traces of Targaryen blood? Stranger things have happened..._

__And as the flames raged on and the wolf’s howls silenced, Melisandre grew more and more certain that Jon Snow’s blood must surge with the dragon's fire—no matter how diluted its origins._ _

_He certainly didn't look Valyrian—Jon Snow was Stark to the bone._

__Melisandre's crimson hair shone like the embers of the blaze before her, and as the night dissolved into morning, the fire died; the light of her necklace dying with it._ _

__Now, after hours of waiting, as the dawn’s sunlight stretched pink across the forest, Melisandre approached the pyre._ _

__Jon Snow laid soundly—the chaste of his ivory skin luminescing in stark contrast to the blackened wood beneath him. His blood had burned away, leaving his wounds scarred and greyed._ _

__Melisandre smiled upon seeing Jon’s chest rise up and down steadily with slow, unconscious breaths, and she rubbed some ashy cinders from his torso with a fluid flash of her hand._ _

__Looking closer, she noticed three of Jon Snow’s white wolf’s teeth pooling in the dip of his sternum—just between the russet disks of Jon’s adjacent nipples. Ghost’s body had crumbled to ash atop Jon’s—his willing death the necessary sacrifice for resurrection._ _

_Three teeth… all that remained of the direwolf…_

__She exhaled a short laugh, and bent towards Jon’s figure._ _

_And what’s this?_

__A shock of white hair grew out from the top of Jon’s skull—as white as bone among the rest of his ebony curls. Melisandre ran the bleached lock thoughtfully through her long fingers._ _

_So white, it’s almost silver…_

__Suddenly, a hiss sounded loudly from above and Melisandre looked to the skies. A red comet flashed across her field of vision and a stretched smile touched her eyes._ _

_Her faith had been rewarded._

__Tonight, in the north, the dead had risen._ _

_The prince had been reborn._


	32. XXXII

**Melisandre:**

The hearth-fire hissed from beneath the rustic mantle—its light caressing the grimy slate of the cramped room’s walls; its heat providing warmth.

Melisandre dragged a wooden chair from across the room; its legs scraping loudly against the cedar floor panels with a long, dusty groan. She placed it beside the thin bed and sat down.

Jon Snow lay before her; the sound of his weak breaths and steady rise and fall of his chest the only indications that her magic had worked—that he had indeed been resurrected. 

They had been in the small shack for two days now; just on the edge of Mole’s Town. But, Jon had yet to awaken.

Melisandre sighed impatiently and dipped a rough cloth into the basin of warmed water—pausing to ring it out before reaching forward and pulling the furs from atop Jon’s unconscious form.

She swallowed thickly and took in the sight.

He looked peaceful despite the slight frown of his plump lips; the perpetual furrow of his brow.

She ran her eyes across his torso; his pale muscles littered with the scars of his betrayal—gray and purple and angry. Her flames had healed him, but Jon Snow would still live with these marks for the rest of his life.

She circled his chest slowly with the rag—her hand moving along the taut slope of his slender frame—moving with the dips of his ribs and slant of his belly.

Her movements halted as her gaze lingered between his legs. His flaccid manhood lay, pale and soft, just beneath a patch of dark hair, which meandered ever so sparsely up to the button of his navel.

_A humble cock—just like the man it belongs to._

She smirked at the thought and continued washing him down.

***

**Jon:**

The pain cycled in and out of the blackness—its haze enduring and expanding through the nothingness before ebbing once more.

Jon Snow existed amidst one long, stretched out echo of consciousness—fuzzy and untouchable.

He was a boy of four again, running through the warmth of Winterfell’s glass garden; wooden sword in hand. The sun shined and Jon’s eyes glowed with mirth and innocence—his cheeks rosy; ears sticking out from beneath his mop of dark curls. Summer was on its way.

Jon stopped to smell the winter roses, their sweet, soft scent making his head swim warmly. He remembered Old Nan’s story of Bael the Bard—of the singer who had stolen the daughter of Winterfell and left a rose in his wake.

Robb hadn’t liked the tale, saying it was too sad. But Jon disagreed. It was alright for things to be sad sometimes. And besides, he liked the singer—thought him brave and noble.

He plucked a flower.

_A gift for his new baby sister, who had hair as red as Robb’s._

Jon walked to the nursery, and stopped, standing in the doorframe—his heartbeat picking up with sudden apprehension. He wasn’t normally allowed in the baby’s room.

_But surely it would be alright—if only to give Sansa her rose._

Looking around nervously, Jon walked slowly towards the wooden crib resting just beneath the window.

His little mouth stretched into a canted smile as he watched Sansa sleep—her pink lips puckering every now and then in time with the coos of her quiet breaths.

“What are you doing?”

The angry voice startled him, and Jon whirled around to meet the accusatory eyes of Lady Stark.

“I—“ he began, crying out when Catelyn wrenched him from the crib by his arm.

The baby started to wail.

“I just wanted to give her a rose,” Jon said, beginning to sniffle with shame as he held the flower meekly before him.

Lady Stark grabbed it from his hand and threw it to the ground. “Get out,” she said coldly.

The pain was back and his world darkened—spun—the memory lost again to the fog of Jon’s awareness. He felt like he was floating.

Then Jon was a child of six, speeding down the hill on an old sled during one of summer’s rare snowstorms. Theon—his father’s new ward—and Robb flying just at his heels.

Reaching the bottom of the slope, Jon rolled from his sled with an excited holler and a wide smile on his face. “I won!” he shouted—raising both gloved fists in the air.

_He’d even beaten Theon—who was almost twice his age!_

“Alright. Calm down, bastard.” Theon said, laughing cruelly as he stepped from his own sled.

Jon’s smile faltered.

“You shouldn’t say that, Theon,” Robb admonished, looking concernedly towards Jon. "It's not kind."

“Say what?” Jon asked, his brow furrowing.

“Bastard,” Robb answered.

“Why not?” Jon asked. “What’s it mean?”

Theon laughed again—harsher this time. “You of all people should know, Snow. Haven't you seen the way Lady Stark looks at you?” He turned and walked his sled back up the hill.

Stomach dropping, Jon looked to his brother. “Robb, what’s _bastard_ mean?”

Robb hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully, his freckled cheeks pink from the cold. “The boys in town say it’s somebody who’s dirty—er... They said it's somebody like you.”

Jon cocked his head to the side in confusion; his dark eyes clouding. “Dirty? But I had a bath yesterday…”

Robb shrugged his shoulders casually. “I don’t know… It just means you're different, Jon.”

“Oh.”

The pain drifted. He felt thirst.

Now he was three-and-ten—wrapped in his furs as the thunder clapped outside the stone walls of his castle chambers.

His door creaked open and the patter of tiny feet slapped against the ground.

Jon sat up with a downturned grin. “Are you scared?”

“No,” Arya said dismissively, jumping onto the end of his bed. But when the thunder rolled again, she whimpered all the same.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” she asked—her thick brows scrunching into a pleading look.

_He couldn’t say no._

“Alright—but don’t tell your mother—and fetch me my britches,” he said, pointing.

Arya picked up his crumpled clothes from the floor. “Jon, these stink,” she giggled, pinching the end of her nose and scooting again atop the bed.

He smiled and wormed his legs into his breeches beneath the furs before patting the space next to him. “C’mon, get in.”

She snuggled into him, running her icy feet against his own and causing Jon to hiss, jerking away. “Gods, your feet are freezing.”

She laughed then, pressing her toes more insistently against him as he rolled away from her—mussing her hair and laughing as he settled.

Arya brushed the strands from her face and reached out, taking a lock of his hair between her fingers. “Your hair is getting long, Jon—you look like father.”

Jon’s heart swelled and he wrapped her in a warm hug. “We should get some sleep, little sister.”

The pain was back. His head throbbed—the edges of his awareness pulsing distortedly.

At six-and-ten, Jon sat by the hot springs with Robb—their jerkins unlaced and their breaths heaving. Jon wiped the sweat from his brow, eyeing his brother as Robb reached out and grabbed Jon’s practice sword from the dirt.

Robb stood, brandishing his swords—now one in each hand, and moved before Jon; looking down on him with a playful smile.

Robb’s impressive footwork had worked to his advantage, resulting in him getting the better of Jon five of the seven times they had sparred this afternoon.

Jon was quicker generally, but less patient—growing angrier as the matches went on; as his number of losses increased with the frustrated impulsivity of his strikes.

Robb bounced a sword teasingly against Jon’s shoulder. “C’mon, Snow. One more round?”

Jon winced in annoyance as he looked to Robb. He shrugged. “Can’t—You’ve got my sword.”

Robb nodded dramatically—his grin stretching. “You’re right—guess you’ll have to come get it from me.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m done for the day.”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Robb quipped as he tapped the sword again against Jon’s shoulder, whipping the other one through the air where it thwacked against Jon’s leg loudly.

Jon pushed the sword away angrily. “Stop it.” Robb’s laugh only further riled him, and he pushed himself from the ground bitterly.

But, when one final provoking blow from Robb hit his side, Jon lunged forward—a growl rolling from the back of his throat.

The boys slammed to the dirt, swords abandoned as they began rolling around; tugging and scratching at each other. Soon enough Jon has Robb pinned on his back, a knee against his chest, and they were both laughing.

Kicking out, Robb flipped Jon’s weight from his body and scrambled through the grass towards the warm pool of water.

Jon let out a determined cry, running after him. He slammed into Robb—grabbing him by the collar of his tunic.

But, despite realizing with dawning surprise that he had overestimated the required speed for his run, Jon found himself unable to slow his momentum. He cried out as he fell into the hot spring, dragging Robb with him.

Heat bubbled around them as they shook the wet hair from their eyes—treading water and laughing even louder as they splashed each other.

_Did time exist in this place? In this nebulous presence that he was existing in... In this field of memories from a lifetime ago..._

Then he was seven-and-ten—the night they had found the direwolves in the forest.

All six pups were lumbering around the floor of the great hall—Ned and Catelyn Stark laughing as they watched each child interact with their new companion.

Jon sat a bit further off—at the end of a long table. The small white one Jon had claimed as his own scampered around his boots—its tail tucked between its short legs.

Hesitantly, Jon picked it up by the rough of its neck, holding the wolf close to his face. “You’re white as a ghost,” Jon said softly.

The pup licked his nose, almost as if in response, and a surprised smile bloomed on Jon’s face. “You like that—Ghost?”

Ghost wagged his tail gently.

Jon startled as Rickon sprinted by, giggling loudly. “Look at Shaggy run!”

“Rickon, be careful!” Sansa scolded.

The pain was dissipating again, but Jon felt as though he was tumbling—a rhythmic swirling blossoming from the center of his being.

Now he was in an alleyway, leaning against the wall of Winter Town’s whorehouse. He would leave for The Wall in just over a fortnight and whether it was due to nerves or the wine in his belly, Jon had let Theon talk him into this.

It hadn’t gone well, and sitting there nervously before Ros as she unlaced his britches, the reality of the night had settled in. Jon pushed her away and walked awkwardly to the door without a word—the tension between his legs proving not quite as overwhelming as his conscience.

_It wasn’t fair._

His breath hitched angrily and Jon slammed a fist into the wall behind him before shoving an angry hand down the front of his breeches.

Stroking himself in the darkness, Jon thought of the whore’s long red hair as he pumped his shaft tightly—a few strangled moans escaping his lips as the speed of his hand increased.

His eyes shut with ecstasy, Jon spilled across his knuckles with a deep cry.

His head swam.

_Gods, how good it felt to come._

Dulled pain. Aching. The scratch of his throat.

The scrape of his knife over the potato skins ceased as Jon threw his head back with laughter. Castle Black’s kitchens were dark despite the early afternoon’s hour.

Pyp strutted in front of Jon, his hair sticking up in several purposeful tufts akin to that of the man who he currently impersonated—Alliser Thorne.

“Lord Snow, peel those potatoes faster.” Pyp said—his voice low and gravelly with the impression.

Jon’s laugh melted into a smirk, and he resumed his work.

“If he hears you, he’ll have us cleaning latrines until winter has _passed_ ,” Jon said.

“Oh, bugger him,” Pyp laughed, picking up his own knife.

Jon could feel his fingers tingling—his mind melding closer to his body. He grunted softly—the sound escaping his raw throat with great effort.

He was sitting against some rocks with Ygritte. She ran her hands through his hair as he laid his head in her lap. They had just finished coupling and Jon’s body was strung out from pleasure.

She had been gentle—vulnerable—loving.

Ygritte scraped her nails along his scalp. “Yer hair is prettier than mine, Jon Snow,” she whispered. “’Fraid it’s not as lucky though.”

Jon felt dampness on his chest—the swirl of fabric move to his thighs—circle his knees. His eyelids fluttered.

He felt the blade of each knife—the taste of blood—the fall of darkness.

And then, Jon Snow opened his eyes.


	33. XXXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** Graphic non-con.

**Jon:**

The wooden crossbeams of the ceiling warped hazily as his vision adjusted—the austere scene settling slowly into place.

“Welcome back, Jon Snow,” the red priestess said—her voice cool and sleek. Vaguely, he realized that the damp warmth sliding across his shinbone had stilled.

“Where am I?” Jon croaked, lifting his head with agonizing energy and looking around the small room.

His stomach churned unpleasantly and his mouth tasted sour.

Jon’s breath hitched as he realized he lay bare before Melisandre—his furs pooled around his ankles and one of her hands resting possessively, just beneath his kneecap.

He swallowed, mewling softly as he moved a hand to his groin—cupping his privates as a blush bloomed across his pale cheeks.

Melisandre cocked an eyebrow at him, smiling smugly at the futility of his modesty.

Then, without warning, a wave of nausea crashed over Jon, and he barely had time to lean over—bracing both hands firmly on the bed’s straw mattress and spilling the watery contents of his stomach to the floor.

He coughed loudly. “Please answer me,” he solicited—his throat hoarse. “Where am I? What's happened?”

“Hush, Jon Snow. We’re outside Mole’s Town,” Melisandre said, passing Jon a horn of water. “Here: drink this—slowly.”

He took the cup from her outstretched hand and eyed it wearily before tilting his head back and taking long, thirsty gulps.

“Slowly!” She reprimanded as his body buckled forward—hacking violently once more.

Melisandre refilled his mug while Jon wiped his mouth—spitting angrily to the floor. He shook his head as she again passed the water towards him.

“Tell me what’s happened,” he said—his voice forceful and raspy in quality.

She laughed softly—almost mockingly. “Tell me first what you remember.”

His eyes darted back and forth in thought. “I remember The Wall—I saw an elk…” His words were searching. “And then Thorne showed up—Slynt and Bowen Marsh—and… and…” he stopped, snapping his head down to look at his stomach.

Jon flitted his fingers testingly across the scars, which peppered his torso—circling the rough, raised skin. He lifted his gaze—meeting her eyes. “How am I still alive?”

“The Lord of Light has plans for you, Jon Snow.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Jon said firmly. “I was stabbed at least a dozen times… I… I should have died.”

“Oh, you did.” Melisandre’s eyes burned.

Jon tilted his head disbelievingly. He was barely awake—his thinking horribly muddled.

“I laid your body on a funeral pyre, set it ablaze, and with a little help from R’hllor and your direwolf, you were reborn amidst the flames.”

Jon’s eyes shut tightly as he rubbed a hand exhaustedly across his brow. “You expect me to believe that?” he said, reopening them.

“Believe what you want… It doesn’t change what’s true.”

_Could it be true? At one point in his life he believed giants and White Walkers were merely the stuff of legends..._

“Tell me why, then,” he said.

_He’ll play along if it gets him answers…_

“Why what?”

“Why do it—why bring me back?”

Melisandre chuckled. “You really do know nothing, Jon Snow.”

His stomach sank.

_Ygritte._

“Where is she?” Jon asked slowly.

“I presume you speak of the wildling with whom you share your bed?” Melisandre said smartingly, her eyes drifting to his exposed crotch.

Jon bit his lip and he nodded, reaching for the furs at his feet and pulling them upwards—covering himself.

“Well I’m sorry, Jon Snow. I don’t know where she is.”

Jon’s head swam.

_Please, let her be alright._

“Does she know where I am? Does she know what’s happened?”

The priestess laughed. “Nobody knows where you are—that’s our secret… Now tell me, how much do you know of Azor Ahai?”

_What is she on about?_

“The basics, I suppose,” Jon answered tiredly—his mouth stretching into a thoughtful frown. “He led the fight against The Others—the story says he’ll return again to do the same—when the long summer ends and the dead rise once more.”

_A man reborn on the cusp of winter…_

“Oh, it’s more than just a story,” Melisandre said coolly. “Do you know what the prophecy says about the promised prince—about the signs?”

Jon rubbed at his temples and said nothing, a hint of understanding—of her intent—making his blood run cold. He shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Azor Ahai is to be born a Prince with the blood of dragons—“

“Well, you can stop there. If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then you’re wasting your time on me—I’m not a Prince—I’m just a bastard from the north—A _Snow_ ,” he said sullenly.

“A _Snow_ , yes—a boy of unknown origins. There could be dragon blood in you yet...”

“You can’t be serious,” he said—slitting his eyes scathingly.

“I’ve seen you in my fires for some time, Jon Snow. And now, here you lie,” she gestured to his form, “Reborn beneath the red comet—reborn to fulfill your destiny.”

“I don’t believe in destiny,” he said.

_This was madness._

“No?”

“No.”

“Hm,” she drew out a slow breath. “You may feel differently when you’re seated on the Iron Throne—an army at your command—a flaming sword in your hand.”

_This was too much…_

Jon laughed gruffly. “I don’t want the throne—I want to find Ygritte—find Ghost—and I want to leave.” He made to get up from the bed—his arms trembling unstably. Melisandre pushed her hand against his chest to stop him.

“Your wolf is dead, Jon Snow.”

_No._

Jon’s breathing stopped. “What?” he croaked softly.

“He sacrificed himself for you—his soul combining with R’hllor’s fires and entering your body in the heat of the storm.”

“He can’t have—“

“He did—“ Melisandre reached into the bodice of her dress, pulling the end of a twine necklace from in between her breasts. “See,” she said, removing the string from her neck and dropping it in Jon’s lap.

He picked it up—his eyes shutting in despair as he identified the objects dangling from the thin rope.

_Three massive canine teeth…_

“Direwolves are magical beasts—Ghost understood your importance—understood what needed to be done… He climbed atop the pyre by his own accord.”

_No. No. No._

Jon closed his fist around the necklace. “I want to go,” he said sturdily—anger bubbling in his chest.

Melisandre clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “And after all I’ve done for you?”

“ _After all you’ve done for me?_ Cast some sick magic to heal my wounds—to use me as a pawn in your game? You killed Ghost!” His strained voice rose, as his fury grew.

She smiled, seemingly unfazed. “You’re no more a pawn than I am responsible for the animal’s death… And you’re too weak to go anywhere now, Jon Snow. Look at yourself,” she extended her hand and ran the pads of her long fingers down the pale muscles of his arm. “Besides, I’m not finished with you yet.”

Her hand moved to his bare chest and she brushed her thumb tantalizingly along his nipple.

Jon’s heart rate picked up—a combination of anger and arousal pulsing fiercely from inside his ribcage. He hissed with objection.

_Gods, he was drained._

The priestess moved to the bed—straddling his hips on her knees. She began to unlace her dress.

Jon’s head spun as he propped himself up on his elbows—struggling from beneath her.

She flattened her palms against his pectorals and whispered, pushing him flat atop the thin mattress. “Shhhhh—lie back down.”

He groaned in protest. “Stop,” Jon said.

_Gods, this felt horrifyingly familiar._

“Enjoy this, Jon Snow. Take what’s yours—give yourself to the Lord of Light. There will be power in our binding—strength.” She crooned in his ear, nipping at its lobe and dropping her hand below his navel—her fingers trailing teasingly lightly against his soft skin.

“Ygritte…” He whined indignantly.

“She’s not here, is she?” Melisandre hummed, palming his soft cock into a semi-hardened state.

“She’s pregnant,” Jon choked out huskily. “I don’t—“ his breath caught as she pressed a thumb against his slit—swirling it slowly around his glans.

“Your only duty now is to R’hllor, Jon Snow… to yourself—embrace what you want—who you are…” She slipped between his legs and took his manhood in her mouth, sucking decadently.

Jon’s breathing picked up and he shut his eyes furiously—willing his body to relax. She had his arms pinned to the bed and he was too weak to fight.

Heat pooled in his belly—blooming slowly and thickly. A low cry escaped his lips.

_Gods, he was so tired of resisting._

He was painfully hard now, and when she pulled herself upright to slide down onto his length, Jon’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head.

She rode him fast and after a few desperate thrusts, she leaned forward—her hand gripping threateningly at the base of his neck.

_Just—Just l-let it… end…_

“Come for me, _my prince_ ,” she whispered seductively.

Jon spilled with a hardy and reluctant grunt—his body shuddering heatedly beneath Melisandre’s as his orgasm’s aftershocks trembled to a halt.

Shame washed over him and he winced as Melisandre removed her touch—as she walked to the other side of the room without a word—a cruel smile on her lips.

_Please… forgive…_

Then, his exhaustion finally overtaking him, Jon drifted again into the blackness of unconsciousness.


	34. XXXIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this has been a mad struggle, so I'm just going to go ahead and post it.

**Melisandre:**

Jon Snow had been somber and sullen since he had awoken just a few days before—since she had taken him; speaking little and sleeping a great deal.

Over this time, Melisandre had watched Jon with reservation; reading his miserable expressions for signs of strength or desire. But so far, all she’d seen etched on the noble lines of his face were looks of confusion, exhaustion, and mistrust.

_In time, she’ll rid him of his doubts—his inhibitions. The Lord of Light will make it so._

She heated some weak broth over the hearth fire.

_Most men would relish the opportunity for The Throne… Most men would give themselves to her willingly…_

But she was coming to understand just how truly different Jon Snow was from most men. He was torn up—the ghost of his loyalties, still weighing heavily on his foggy mind despite the reprieve of death.

Stirring the watery stew, Melisandre prayed to R’hllor for the ability to endure Jon Snow’s obvious and obstinate opposition to her will—to The Lord’s will.

_Patience…_

She walked to Jon’s bedside with the bowl of broth in hand. He was turned away from her, towards the wall; his furs shrugged tightly around his shoulders and his knees pulled up into himself as he slept.

Melisandre sighed deeply and reached out—scratching her long, porcelain fingers gently down the length of his curved back.

Jon startled awake at her touch, struggling to push himself into a seated position as he backed into the corner, facing her.

She gave him a curt, almost belittling, smile and extended the steaming broth towards him.

“Eat, Jon Snow.” Her eyebrows arched regally.

Jon took the bowl slowly. And without a word, he raised the hot liquid to his mouth with shaky hands, beginning to slurp modestly. Peeking out from just above the rim of the dish, his dark eyes met hers as he drank. Jon dropped his gaze after a few moments with a look of angry humiliation.

“I’m not very hungry,” he croaked, lowering the bowl and passing it to her.

Melisandre pushed his hand away. “No—you need to build your health.”

He pulled back resignedly but did not again raise the broth to his lips.

Rolling her eyes, Melisandre walked to the opposite side of the crude room. “I have something for you,” she said, hoping to ease some of his anxieties. Her voice was smooth and rich as she gathered a pile of men’s clothes in her hands and brought them to Jon.

Jon’s eyes slit warily. “Did you kill someone for these?” he asked, running his fingers slowly along the stitching of the black tunic.

“No,” Melisandre answered, an edge to her tone. “I bought them from town while you slept.”

Jon pulled the tunic over his head—the static of its dark fabric causing his hair to stick up, almost amplifying the new strands of white.

_Had he even noticed them yet?_

“And I have boots for you on the table, just there…” she said, pointing by the hearth “…By your sword—do you see how it glows, Jon Snow?”

Jon craned his neck slightly, looking to the table with a hint of interest cracking through the indifference of his stark expression.

_There’s a good boy…_

Longclaw emitted a faint amber light.

“Its power will strengthen as you do,” Melisandre said knowingly.

Jon’s eyes caught on the sword’s hilt and he swallowed deeply—his Adam’s apple bobbing tensely beneath the charcoal curls of his beard.

_Of course—the white wolf pommel…_

“We can have a new pommel crafted for you,” Melisandre said quickly. “Perhaps a phoenix would be more fitting for a man reborn among flames... King’s Landing is said to have the best smiths.” 

_His wolf is gone—he needs to accept it._

Jon’s face paled angrily. “I don’t want a new pommel. And I don’t want to go to King’s Landing.” He gripped the black britches tightly in his hands.

She paused. “Perhaps not now, Jon Snow… But you will… The long winter approaches and Azor Ahai must lead the fight against The Others… There’s only so much a bastard boy from Winterfell can do for Westeros… But a king—A king can do great things.”

“I’m not a king,” Jon said, his jaw clenched tightly; his dark lashes closing as though he were in pain.

“Not yet—but you will be… You’ve seen how your noble intentions to protect the realms of men, diplomatic though they were, have failed... how they got you killed.”

Jon nodded bitterly, his expression distant.

Melisandre took a deep breath. “This _is_ the way. You’ll lead your fight, but you’ll do it with a king’s banners waving in your wake.”

Jon sat in silence, seeming to think on her words. After a time, he finally spoke, shaking his head. “You’ve made a mistake—I don’t want The Throne. I need to find Ygritte… I’ll fight when the time comes, but I won’t do it as your king.” His voice was quiet, but commanding nonetheless.

Melisandre clicked her tongue comfortingly. “There are no mistakes,” she retorted coolly. “I’ve seen the flames.” She said, pursing her crimson lips sharply into a smug smile as she reached out to stroke his flinching cheek. “ _Trust_ , Jon Snow—The Lord of Light guides me. I know what’s best for you—best for Westeros.”

An exhausted sneer flickered ever so briefly across Jon’s face before faltering again into a concentrated frown. “ _You_ know nothing,” he said raising his eyebrows combatively; the conviction in his low voice firm and palpable.

***

**Jon:**

Jon burrowed his face deeper into the scratchy pillow—squirming subtly as his curls brushed into the swell of his closed eyelids.

He’d been quietly awake for hours, keeping his movements discreet and his exhaustion overplayed. The smell of straw permeated the sickly air around him.

Jon’s bones ached and his scars still stung, but he was feeling stronger every day. And now, all he had to do was wait.

_Wait for just the right moment._

Melisandre had sat at the small table in the corner of the room for most of the day. Every now and then she would whisper in Valyrian or stoke the fire; the timber’s crackle and burn effectively reminding Jon of her presence. In these moments, he would unconsciously curl up on himself—his hands clasped between his hooked knees—and shudder faintly.

Since his awakening several days prior, Jon had been, for the most part, bitterly confused and angry. His thinking was severely muddled; Melisandre’s unwanted touches and talk of rebirth or Promised Princes only serving to further unsettle his emotional processing and sense of purpose.

Still, as time crawled on, Jon found himself periodically running his hand along the lines of his marked belly, and eventually he could no longer deny certain truths—some realities were clearly forming.

_For better or for worse, by fate or by fortune, he had been returned to the land of the living—had been given another chance._

Jon couldn’t quite process his rebirth, let alone find a rhyme or reason for it (aside from the Red Priestess’ appropriated fanaticism). But regardless, his wounds were closed—scarred and stretched like healed trophies he’d earned a lifetime ago—and blood was pumping vigorously through his veins. 

_What does a man do with a second chance at life?_

Overwhelmed, Jon would oft roll over as his musings became too difficult or jumbled, seeking slumber’s escape desperately. But, every time he shut his eyes, he saw the angry faces of The Watch, felt the warmth of Ghost’s fur slipping from between his fingers, saw Melisandre’s red stare burning into him as she writhed atop his hips; as he’d finished inside her.

_Something he’d only ever done with one other woman…_

Lying in the straw bed, filled with disorganized shame and fury, Jon’s life possessed an incomprehensible quality; feeling more and more like nothing but a hazy farce crystalizing into one necessity; one coherent reality—Ygritte.

_Damn The Watch, damn the red witch, and damn winter. He had to get to Ygritte… But how?_

Though it went mostly unspoken, Jon absolutely understood that he “wasn’t allowed” to leave this room of his own volition.

And so, with all these difficult truths and conflicting desires now as clear to Jon as they would ever be, on the fourth day since he had first awoken, Jon set his plans for escape and awaited the opportunity he knew would come. 

Twice a day, the priestess would open the door to the small shack and head out in search of firewood. On average, she was gone no more than five minutes. It was during this narrow window of time that Jon would make his move.

Within the hour, Melisandre wordlessly scooted her chair out from the table and shouldered her crimson cloak—the rustle of fabric stirring up clouds of dust by the dying fire as she fastened the clasps around her neck.

Jon’s heart rate accelerated and his fingers gripped the sheets anxiously. He stilled his breathing.

The moment the wooden door slammed shut in its frame, Jon sprung from the mattress and took stock of his surroundings. His head spun with the sudden rush of movement and he reached out, steadying himself against the wall.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Jon then pushed himself to the table by the hearth—his bare feet padding urgently against the chalky, splintered floorboards.

He grabbed his boots from the corner and yanked them onto his frozen feet, stuffing the hems of his breeches around his ankles to preserve warmth. He scanned the fireside.

_Seven Hells! Where’s the sword?_

Jon knew he had seen Longclaw on the table just a few days before.

_Had she taken it with her?_

Nervously, he swiveled his head to the crude chest at the opposite end of the room and raced towards it.

Jon then pried open its lid, and pulled his black cloak from inside the trunk. He sighed with relief as the thick material shifted to reveal the newly faint glow of Longclaw’s blade.

_Gods, his hands were shaking._

Moving quicker, Jon shrugged his cloak around his form, grunting with the effort as he pulled the furs snugly around his neck. He then readied Longclaw’s belt at his waist—his aching fingers fumbling numbly.

Jon winced, shutting his eyes tightly and bearing his teeth to bar a groan, as the leather tightened, stretching painfully across the wounds of his hips.

_Gods, they may look healed, but they still smarted like a bitch._

Evening his breath once again, Jon walked quickly to the door, reaching out for the latch.

However, before the tips of his fingers could make contact with the rough wood, the door opened, and Jon stood face to face with the Red Priestess.

_Fuck._

A flicker of surprise crossed her face before her expression cooled into an amused smirk. She cocked one eyebrow. “Going somewhere, Jon Snow?”

Jon nodded determinedly. “Aye—I’m going to find Ygritte… _Please_ get out of my way.” The politeness was forced—his voice strained. He moved forward as though to sidestep her, stopping as she splayed her long fingers against his chest.

Her red nails dragged teasingly against the thin fabric of his tunic, and Jon took a small step back, hissing as he did so.

“A Prince can have any woman he wants,” Melisandre said, dropping her hand. “Forget the wildling.”

Jon’s jaw set and he wrapped his fingers threateningly around Longclaw’s handle. “Move,” he said commandingly.

Melisandre rolled her eyes as she crossed her arms across her chest. Jon couldn’t help but notice the way her breasts plumped from her bodice with the pressure.

Clearing his throat, Jon pulled his eyes up to meet hers. “Move,” he ordered again. “I’ll not let you stop me.”

With obviously less patience than she had before, Melisandre’s face hardened with anger. “You’d throw this all away—your fate—for a wildling girl? Leave her in the past, Jon Snow. You’ve been reborn as—“

Jon cut her off. “I don’t care what you think I am, and I don’t care what you want from me. I’m leaving… now,” he said icily.

She laid her hand on his shoulder delicately, closing the space in between their bodies with a small step. Jon flinched, but stood his ground, eyeing her with distracted wariness as she smoothed her nails down the slope of his bicep.

“You must choose, Jon Snow…” Melisandre said, gripping his elbow lightly and running her hand across her forearm. “You must choose light.” She reached out, shooting her hand between his legs and grazing his clothed bulge.

A surge of animalistic rage washed over Jon. He saw red crowd the edge of his vision as it had done so on those many nights he ran with Ghost; ran _as_ Ghost.

And before he could think, Jon pulled Longclaw from his sheath and thrust it through the heart of the Red Priestess in one fluid motion.

Jon let out an angry grunt as a calm washed over him. He looked to Melisandre, his dark eyes clouding curiously as he met her dying stare.

Melisandre’s rosy lips parted with ragged breaths; her scarlet eyes shining with a saddened awe as the life left her body.

Jon stepped back, his breath coming in heaving pants, as he let her body drop to the ground before him. The gust from her fall stirred the dry smolder of the faded fire.

Standing above her fresh corpse, the numbing coldness that pervaded Jon’s mood almost surprised him. He felt pity for neither himself nor the Red Woman.

Jon watched the blood pool around her thick hair; the colors of the twisted scene as deep and red as the leaves of a Wierwood Tree.

_He was going to find Ygritte… and he was leaving The North._


	35. XXXV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short one.

**Ygritte:**

A light breeze ferried the brisk smell of pine and snow; the scent as fresh as the morning itself. Ygritte rubbed distractedly at the cracking, pink skin of her knuckles. Her throat was dry, but her nose watered steadily, and she sniffed loudly as she kicked at the broken stones of the ruined fort buried amidst the brine and frost.

With a rough sigh, she leaned back against the fortress wall and slid to a squatting position, letting her hands cradle the weight of her head as she ran her fingers restlessly through the tangle of red beneath her hood.

Ygritte had reached the Nightfort three nights past, and in that time, aside from a feverish fixation on the fletching of her arrows, she had felt largely and uneasily useless.

When Mance and Tormund had left for Hardhome, Munda had been placed in charge of the garrison. Like any strong-willed wildling woman, she didn’t take the news of “the Free Folk to Crow Liason’s” death—of The Night’s Watch’s ultimate and dishonest treachery—lightly. And after talking Ygritte down from storming Castle Black on her own, Munda had promised to gather support from the Free Folk stationed along the other abandoned castles of The Wall. Ygritte would just have to be patient.

_A few more days and then they could take action—then they would attack._

Ygritte itched for the anxious relief, which an offense would bring. Waiting by idly wasn’t in her nature, but she understood that the more wildlings they had marching on Castle Black, the easier it would be to take down the 100 or so crows who still remained within its walls.

Ygritte scoffed bitterly—her raw eyes burning with tears that were becoming more and more familiar. She blinked them back angrily.

It all seemed so absurd—Jon’s entire purpose over the last many fortnights had been saving the lives of as many people possible by avoiding an attack on The Wall and getting the Free Folk to safety. And now, here Ygritte was—alone and back to the beginning—Jon’s death nothing but a meaningless joke, and Castle Black’s ultimate demise merely a delayed inevitability.

She felt a stir of nausea and dropped her ungloved hands to the snow, balancing her body weight before leaning forward and retching.

_Gods, the sickness is always worse in the morning…_

She wiped her mouth and spat sourly—watching as the acidic warmth of her bile melted through the sheet of ice that layered the snow’s surface.

“There ya are,” a husky voice said suddenly from behind.

Ygritte turned to see Munda stomping her way up the crumbling remnants of stone steps. She held Birna in her arms, and the little girl smiled softly as she was lowered to the ground—her rosy face encircled by the heavy furs of her hood.

She toddled over and ran her small hand soothingly through the ends of Ygritte’s hair, humming lightly as she did so.

Ygritte cracked a sincere smile (one of the few she’d had since the news of Jon’s death) and pulled Birna to her lap where she pressed a warm kiss to the girl’s forehead.

Standing back, Munda reached out, grabbing the broad branch of a twisted tree, and steadying herself before propping her foot atop a dilapidated pile of bricks and scanning her eyes across the snow.

“Ya’ve been sick?”

“Aye—but it’s no fuss… I’m almost gettin’ used ta it.”

Munda nodded. “It were the same for me with Birna—every day. Gods, if men ‘ad to carry the babes they’d think twice before shootin’ their loads so quick,” Munda laughed.

Ygritte smiled weakly and rubbed the little girl’s shoulder.

“How are ya doin’?” Munda asked, her own smile falling as she read the obvious grief pooled in Ygritte’s eyes.

Ygritte tried to laugh, and she pulled her face into a grimly canted smile. “Well…” she said, her grin dropping quickly as an image of Jon’s oft similarly downturned smile flashed through her mind. “I’ve been better—What’s Smyrill’s report?”

Upon Ygritte’s arrival at the fort, a handful of ravens were sent out, carrying message of the Watch’s betrayal (and of the reinvigorated wildling plans for attack) to the newly manned Free Folk towers on The Wall (all the way from Westwatch-by-the-Bridge to Greenguard). Smyrill—a Hornfoot warg stationed at the Nightfort—had followed the birds’ progression through the eyes of his own small falcon and ultimately traversed the entire length of the wall twice in the three days since the news had broke.

“Says most o’ the castles have sent out a handful o’ men each—Stonedoor and Hoarfrost Hill ‘ave sent a fair few more. It’ll take ‘em a few days still—but we should ‘ave ‘bout 1000 men when all’s ready.”

Ygritte nodded, chewing on her bottom lip as her brow creased with determination. “1000 men—that’ll crush 100 crows. As for me though, them Sers Alliser and Janos are mine... So that only leaves 98 miserable brothers in black for the rest of you lot... Think ya can manage?” She teased dryly.

Munda smirked. “Aye—and we’re on the right side o’ The Wall this time… With all your friend Sam told us, we’ll ‘ave an easy time o’ it breaking through their fortress.”

Ygritte pulled off her hood and tongued her cheek nervously. “And then we can get ta killin’ crows.”

“Let’s just hope The Walkers don’t decide to crawl over The Wall while most o’ the garrisons are busy stormin’ Castle Black.”

Ygritte arched her eyebrows and nodded in a bitter expression of pragmatic agreement. “And let’s hope them lot at Hardhome are safely on this side when winter does come.”

“'Gritte?” Birna interrupted suddenly—her voice chalky and quiet.

“Yeah, luv?” Ygritte dropped her head to meet the young girl’s gaze.

Birna pressed her hand against Ygritte’s belly. “The baby—it’s in yer tummy?”

Ygritte took a deep breath. “Aye, it is.”

“And it’s,” the girl huffed a little breath in thought, “Yer friend Jon—he’s the daddy?”

The point of Ygritte’s chin trembled slightly, but she managed to smile nonetheless. “Aye—Jon Snow’s the daddy.”

Munda stepped forward, hoisting Birna up by her armpits with a grunt.

The girl clung to her mother’s shoulder and Ygritte looked sadly up at Munda—the woman she had been practically raised alongside.

“You’ll be alright, y’know…” Munda said softly.

_Jon Snow was gone._

Ygritte nodded; teeth chattering as she tried to rein in her blooming emotion. “It’s just… he’s left me all alone with this… with _our_ baby.” Her anger at Jon was misdirected, but she was too tried to care.

_She wouldn’t cry…_

“I know, Ygritte—but yer da’ was left all alone with you… Tormund raised me and Hildr fine on his own.” Munda laughed briskly. “And at least ya’ve got the tits to feed it… Ya don’t need a man…”

“I know I don’t _need_ him,” Ygritte said, her tone harsher than she’d intended. “But I… I _miss_ him… I didn’t even see him…” her heart thudded as she pictured his death—as she imagined all the knives and the blood. “He’d ‘ave been brave in the end—Jon was always brave…”

Munda nodded seriously. “And you are too.”

Ygritte sniffed roughly, thinking on Munda’s words. “I know—fuck,” she laughed dismally. “And I s'pose if Tormund can take care o’ a kid by himself, then I sure as hell can too.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds as Ygritte’s laughter faded—her expression darkening. She watched a pale moth crawl slowly along a frosted rock at her feet.

When Ygritte spoke again, her voice was low and rolling. “Jon Snow was too kind for his own good… I’ll not be makin’ his same mistake. Castle Black will fall—there’s no more room in this world for crows.”


	36. XXXVI

**Jon:**

It was late afternoon as Jon stared down at Melisandre’s body, feeling an overwhelming sense of relative indifference. Her skin was waxy and pale; the plump of her lips tightened into a languid glower.

The flicker of the funeral fire skipped light off the planes of her face, yellowing the sharp slope of her cheekbones beneath the tense arc of her shaped brows.

_Now, even amidst the flames, she looks cold…_

Jon took a step back, surveying the pyre and watching as the velveteen fabric of her dress caught aflame—as the fire engulfed her form.

A detached curiosity flooded Jon’s chest and his brow furrowed. His emotions weren’t like they had been with the deaths of Qhorin or Orell. In those cases (albeit more so with Qhorin than with Orell), Jon had felt remorse—truly felt the weight of taking a man’s life. But, as he stood here now, above The Priestess, Jon merely felt a sense of cold relief.

_She'd had to go…_

His eyes shifted back and forth with the quiver of the fire, but his expression remained otherwise unmoving—a scowl etched stonily on his face.

Jon scratched at the crease of his left thigh, which, despite his fair distance from the fire, was warming rapidly. He repositioned his stance before grunting with discomfort and looking down.

_What in Seven Hells?_

A warm glow emanated from the depths of Longclaw’s scabbard—its light brightly feathering out around the handle and encircling the pommel.

Jon unsheathed the sword, his eyes widening with shock as he did so. The blade looked as though it was afire—the living flames of the weapon flaring furiously along its Valryian length.

The Red Woman’s body burned in the background.

Jon pulled off the glove of his free hand with his teeth and hesitated a moment before pressing his fingers to the fiery blade.

_Gods…_

He felt heat, but no pain. The fire swirled around his fingers as he wiggled and waved them through its flames.

Impulsively, Jon dropped the sword and walked again to the pyre. His heart was thumping.

Its climbing light reflected in the darkness of his pupils as he gazed in awe at its strength before taking a deep breath and darting his hand into the fire.

Again, he felt nothing but warmth.

After a few turns of his hand, he laughed hoarsely, shaking his head with disbelief and turning to pick up Longclaw from the snow.

_Azor Ahai had had a flaming sword—Lightbringer._

Tentatively, he thought on Melisandre’s prophecy. And much to his shame, his ego swelled at the idea of importance and respect—at the idea of _Jon Snow_ as a promised hero. But Jon quickly swallowed this pride, humility washing over him, and he grew cold with anger.

_He didn’t want to conquer anything or anyone—he just wanted his family back… his wolf, his brothers and sisters, his father… Ygritte and their unborn child…_

Jon held the blade at arms length and caught sight of his reflection. His breath hitched and he hesitantly reached his hand up to tease at the shock of white hair that stuck, newly noticed, out amidst his black curls.

He ran his tongue curiously across his bottom lip as he rubbed the silvery strands through the grooves of his burned thumb (scarred so long ago in Castle Black). He scratched his head slowly.

_The bastard of Winterfell and his bastard longsword—both reborn among the flames…_

Jon angled his sword’s hilt and noticed the ruby eyes of his wolf’s pommel—they had lit up too, red and bright with life.

He thought of Ghost—of Ghost’s sacrifice. Tears prickled at his eyes and he shut them closed, clenching his fists by his side. But, regardless of his efforts at restraint, before long, hot tears were rolling down his cheeks.

_Who was he now? Who was Jon Snow?_

After a time, Jon sniffed loudly and composed himself.

_He didn’t have time for mourning—for self-pity._

He grimaced sadly and looked to the sky. The moon was heavy in the evening light—milky and white framed by the pale blue of the atmosphere. It hung pure above the dark plumes of billowing smoke.

Jon startled as the fire crackled explosively—surging with new life. Melisandre’s body had now completely blackened.

With a wave of determination washing over him, Jon gritted his teeth and sheathed Longclaw. He shoved his hands resolvedly back into his leather gloves.

_Night would fall soon and he had a certain castle to storm, a certain maester who could give him answers, and a certain ginger wildling to find._

***

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte burrowed her face deeper into the scratchy pillow. She was lying on her side, her hands tucked between her thighs for warmth.

Munda and Birna slept to her back on the large, molded mattress, while Hildr slept on a pallet of furs at the opposite end of the small room. Ygritte could hear the rattle of the girl’s chest-cold as she breathed in and out in her sound sleep.

Hoping to create some heat with the friction, Ygritte rubbed her bony knees together. She shivered regardless.

It was during these cold nights when she missed Jon the most. She could almost feel him, pressed against her back—his arms wrapped lovingly around her—the tickle of his breath hot against her neck.

Shutting her eyes tightly, Ygritte swore she could smell Jon—the olfactory memory of his dusty leathers, lingering sweat, and hint of heather triggering an immediate comfort.

Ygritte sighed with aching nostalgia and wondered which time it had been—which time Jon Snow had spilled inside her—that left her carrying his babe.

_Gods, it could ‘ave been any one o’ them…_

Eyes still closed, she smiled sadly and remembered their first coupling. The bubble of hot springs and the drip of stalactites rang in her ears.

Jon had been so quiet as she stood bare before him.

_He’d been tremblin’…_

“We shouldn’t,” he’d mumbled hoarsely (in feeble protest) as she pressed herself to him.

“We should,” she’d hissed.

_And they had._

He kissed her fearfully and hungrily—honestly and freshly.

_He kissed her like a Lord kisses his Lady…_

Once he’d brought her to climax with his tongue, Ygritte pulled his face to hers and reached between his legs. She guided him inside her, laughing at the pained seriousness of his expression.

His body planked, hovering motionless above her as his arms shook slightly, his cock sunk rigidly within her core.

_He'd froze..._

“It don’t just end with ya stickin’ it in me, Jon Snow. Ya’ve got ta _move_ ,” she’d panted, grinning.

Ygritte could then feel the nervous excitement tumble in his belly—his muscles twitching with the sensation as he began to push slowly in and out.

After a short time, she tightened around him and Jon cried out—his breath catching in his throat as he tried to pull out. “Ygritte—I can’t—“

But she’d held him steadily before angling her chin to his jawbone—kissing lewdly at his ear as he came inside her with a rough grunt (its sound so like the noises he makes as he cleaves his sword through the air).

She cackled loudly. “It feels good, don’t it?”

He was breathing heavily, a relieved grin quickly replaced by dawning horror. “What if you—what if you get pregnant?” He'd heaved concernedly.

_The genuine care in his eyes had melted somethin’ inside her…_

Ygritte laughed sweetly, taking his face between her palms and stroking a thumb across his cheek. “I guess ya’ll just ‘ave ta stick around and see.”

He dropped his eyes, darting them back and forth nervously beneath his dark lashes, and Ygritte could see the guilt that raged inside him.

She softened. “Don’t worry, Jon Snow,” she’d admonished gently. “You’re alright.”

So she pulled him to the ground and they’d lain on their backs in the cave for several quiet minutes. He rubbed her arm lovingly with his burned hand.

“That thing you did with your mouth… Is that what Lords do to their Ladies in the South?” She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him.

Jon smiled—his sweet, tilting grin stretching warmly. He’d put his arm around her. “I don’t know… I just wanted to kiss you there is all.”

_They never should have left that cave…_

And now, with a single tear balancing in the corner of her eye and a soft smile on her lips, Ygritte finally drifted off to sleep.


	37. XXXVII

**Jon:**

Jon pressed his body flush against the wall—the frozen stone of Castle Black cold even through the thick of his cloak. Above him, the wooden overpass shook with the weight of a pacing watchman’s casually cadenced footsteps, sending a light flurry of snow slipping through the icy slats.

Jon blinked the flakes from his dark lashes and exhaled a quiet and steady breath. The plume of vapor swirled, expanding rapidly before dissolving completely into the night air.

The sound of footsteps was growing fainter.

Gripping the briny metal claw of a grappling hook tightly in a gloved hand, Jon channeled his anxious energy into a physical tic—briskly shrugging his shoulders up and down, up and down.

He moved stealthily from underneath the footbridge’s cover and looked up.

_Alright—clear._

Steadying his stance, he swung the grappling rope in tight, controlled circles. Jon then released his hold, and the iron claw sailed purposely through the air before catching firmly on the wooden railing above him with a loud _thunk._

He held his breath and listened for the sound of returning footfall. And when he detected no notable commotion, Jon tugged testily on the rope and began to scale the black stone of the bastion.

Powdered snow had frosted snugly along its rocky grooves, causing his boots to scratch and scrape at the icy surface as he pulled his weight up. 

It wasn’t a long climb, and Jon had barely broken a sweat by the time he dropped softly to the wooden boards of the covered parapet.

He crouched low, the curls on his head just cresting the railing of the bulwark as he shuffled along the wooden pathway.

The snowy silence pervaded the air. Jon’s heart raced.

Shrugging his cloak snug, he picked up his pace and approached the walkway’s corner with hesitation. He backed himself against the wall and peaked around the path’s intersection.

_Nothing… No one…._

Jon breathed a sigh of relief and stalked quickly forward. He rounded the descending bend of the boarded stairway—taking each step three footfalls at a time.

As he bounded his way down the winding staircase, Jon felt a peculiar familiarity fall over him.

_He’d walked these steps many times…_

Reaching the last step, he huddled low against the contour of the flight’s curving passageway and palmed Longclaw’s warm hilt readily in an uneasy fist.

He moved forward (albeit a bit too quickly), only to step backwards in sullen shock as he ran headfirst into the odiously pompous Janos Slynt.

Slynt’s pinched, plump face collapsed in mortified surprise—his bald head shining in the diffused moonlight as his breath caught. “It can’t be,” he gasped.

Jon lunged forward, grabbing Slynt by the collar of his jerkin and slamming him to the wall as he unsheathed Longclaw. Jon held the flaming blade threateningly to Slynt’s throat.

He leaned close. “Where is Maester Aemon?” Jon hissed—the force of his breath causing the disorderly curls, which had fallen in his face, to bounce angrily in its current.

Fearful confusion clouded Slynt’s small, pale eyes. “How did—?” he began.

“Answer me.” Jon’s grip tightened. “Where is The Maester?”

“He’s… sick—fallen ill… In his chambers.” Slynt spluttered, his face drained of all color.

Jon nodded, taking in the information.

With terrified apprehension, Slynt opened his mouth again. “I watched you die, boy,” He said, his voice trembling.

“Aye—you did.” Jon’s lip curled bitterly before pushing Slynt to his knees and slowly raising the tip of his sword.

Slynt cowered, chilled understanding dawning reluctantly on his sweaty features. “What are you—?”

_He can’t be trusted… he has to die…_

Jon ran the knuckles of his free hand angrily long the scratch of his beard, staring down at Slynt with a sort of calloused pity. He adjusted his grip on his sword, tilting it deliberately towards the man’s jugular.

Slynt’s eyes were widening. “Do you—You intend to take revenge?” His desperate whispers were growing in volume. “It was Ser Alliser’s idea! He called for your death—I was just—”

Jon shook his head, his expression stony. “Not revenge—only justice.” His voice was hoarse.

“No, don’t! Please—I won’t tell them you’re here! Mercy, please!” He blubbered, holding his hands up in a gesture of submission.

“If you have any last words, My Lord, now’s the time.” Jon spoke with a decidedly regretful coldness.

_Ser Janos had already tried to kill him once…_

“I’m sorry,” Slynt cried, shuddering weakly—his eyes shut tightly. “I was wrong! Please… I’m afraid… I’ve always been afraid!” He fell forward, prostrating himself flat against the ground.

Brow creased, Jon shut his eyes and breathed through his nose as he collected himself—as he prepared himself.

_This man helped slay Ned Stark…_

And then, with hardened resolve and without a second thought, Jon hacked Longclaw through the air, separating Ser Janos’ head from his body in one clean, merciful blow.

Slynt’s head rolled across the wooden paneling and wasting no time, Jon stepped over it, hurrying off in the direction of The Maester’s quarters.

As he passed noiselessly beneath the rookery’s balcony, the ravens eyed Jon with steely silence. Jon met their brutal gaze, and swallowing thickly, he ran a hand across the splintered, cedar door to Maester Aemon’s chambers before pushing gently and stepping inside.

The keep was dimly lit—smelling of dust and parchment. Jon walked slowly to the bed and reached out, gently grazing his fingers against the weave of Aemon’s tunic.

“Maester Aemon,” he whispered.

The old man’s milky eyes shot open, darting back and forth swiftly before lighting up above a small, crooked smile. “Jon Snow,” he croaked.

Jon knelt down by the bed, leveling himself with the Maester. In the candlelight Aemon’s skin looked wrinkly and waxy. His breath was raspy; his face flushed.

“How are you feeling?” Jon asked.

“Oh, like a hundred-year old man slowly freezing to death,” Aemon laughed softly before sobering. “Tell me, Jon Snow, as a man who has already made the journey himself, do you have any consolation for a dying man?”

Maester Aemon’s moments of clairvoyance always surprised Jon, and he brushed his tongue curiously along his dry lips. “So you know, then? About the Red Priestess… That I’ve—“

“Know what, Jon? I know you were murdered at the hands of your former brothers. But I also know that now you stand before me—a man who lives despite his death. It’s curious, to say the least… but you seem real enough.”

Jon’s brow furrowed before he offered up a comforting smile. “Well, it doesn’t hurt—the actual dying,” he said.

_It doesn't feel like anything. There's nothing to feel... Nothing at all._

Aemon nodded quietly. “No… no more than living does, I gather.”

Jon’s grin faltered and he took a deep breath before asking the question he so desperately needed answered. “Maester, I’ve come to—do you know what’s happened to Ygritte? Did she get away?”

The man’s thin mouth tightened into a grimace. “I’m sorry, Jon, but I do not know where the girl is...”

“But the men—they didn’t kill her?” Jon asked—his heart in his throat.

“Not to my knowledge.”

_Thank the Gods… Though where could she be?_

“And Sam?” Jon questioned.

“Mr. Tarly left for The Citadel with Craster’s daughter no more than an hour after your death—he wouldn’t have been safe here, and he’ll be of more use to The Realm in Oldtown.”

_Good._

“So what happens now?” Jon spoke softly.

Aemon took a quivering breath. “As it is, The Watch’s days are numbered… I fear the order won’t survive for much longer.”

There was a heavy silence in the musty chambers. Neither man seemed bothered by the stillness, but after several minutes deep in thought, Jon finally spoke. “What should… What do I do?” He asked—his voice quiet and tentative. For the first time since his strength had returned, he felt more scared than he did angry. His heart rate picked up.

_What does any of this mean? Death? Rebirth? Love? Honor?_

The Maester took a deep breath and grabbed Jon’s hand with paternal shakiness. “You’re alive for a reason, Jon—I don’t claim to know what that reason is, but surely the Gods have plans for you.” His cloudy eyes were lidded heavily.

“And which Gods might those be?” Jon asked skeptically. Melisandre’s religious speeches echoed hauntingly inside his head.

_You must choose light…_

“The Seven, The Drowned God, The Old Gods… The Lord of Light—they’re all the same, Jon Snow… The same God known by many names—by many faces.”

“It’s just… The Priestess—she said—“ Jon’s voice caught.

_A Promised Prince…_

Maester Aemon patted Jon’s hand tenderly. “I’m no great prophet, but in times like these, I’ve found comfort in the silence of my house’s Gods—found comfort in the Sept… If I were you, I would go to the Whitetree and sit with The Old Gods—with your Stark Gods.”

Jon nodded—his mind raced uncomfortably. There was truth to The Maester’s words—ever since he was a boy, Jon had found solace in the Godswood’s shade during times of distress.

“I will,” Jon said eventually.

The Maester acknowledged his approval before offering warning. “The morning approaches—you shouldn’t stay in Castle Black for much longer.” He gestured to the gate keys resting on the side table. “Take these. If you move with haste and stay in the shadows, you’ll be able to pass through The Wall before the night has waned.”

Jon took the metal ring and stood up. “Thank you, Maester Aemon—for everything.”

Aemon smiled warmly. “There is strength in you, Jon Snow... In time, you will do the things that must be done—will discover the man you were born to be.”

Though not fully understanding The Measter’s words, Jon returned the smile. “Get some rest,” he said. And with that, Jon twisted around, walking hurriedly to the door and slipping out into the night.

***

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte stood on the dilapidated balcony, the tendrils of her ginger hair floating gently in the morning breeze. Pink light skated across the landscape—the sun just peaking above the distant mountains to the south.

She couldn’t sleep and she’d dreamt again of Jon Snow—of the small freckle cresting the swell of his left shoulder, the rounding slope of the tip of his nose, the scraggly bristles of his mustache lining the cant of his rare and goofy smile.

But the dream had changed. The dark lines of his hair had transformed into the stark white, winding roots of a massive Weirwood tree perched on a snowy hill—its leaves gleaming crimson in an almost heavenly light.

The tree called out to her and she’d awoken in a cold sweat, a sense of urgency humming in her bones. She’d grabbed her bow and padded out of the chambers in search of game… in search of a distraction.

And now, Ygritte leaned against the sagging, stone railings, looking out across the southern world still so seemingly foreign to her.

_Jon’s world._

Suddenly, Ygritte heard the flutter of wings and she turned her head sharply to her side. A raven sat on the stout wall; its dark claws scraping at the frosted stones as it hopped shallowly, tucking its wings to its side.

The bird blinked stoically.

_Three eyes?_

Ygritte cocked her head questioningly as the bird took off, swooping smoothly down the nearby stairway towards the fort’s tunnel.

She tongued her cheek apprehensively and stood her ground.

“You have to go north.” The familiar voice sounded as though it came from inside her head.

Ygritte’s heart all but stopped.

_Jon?_

Her skull reverberated again—echoing. “You have to go _home_.”

_It’s not Jon—this voice isn’t as deep… isn’t as gruff…_

It called once more. “Go north.”

And with that, she snapped into action, racing after the crow, bow firmly in hand.


	38. XXXVIII

**Jon:**

Jon’s boots crunched—the discarded, frosted leaves of the Weirwood shifting frigidly beneath his weight. A charged, comfortable stillness resounded through the woods.

He stalked slowly to the center of the clearing and reached out, shucking off his gloves and running his fingers along the twisting stretch of a thick, white branch.

_He’d said his vows here._

Looking up, Jon squinted as the sun shafted its way through the tree’s dense foliage, blurring the crisp edges of each starred leaf so that they softened collectively into one backlit, fanned mass of crimson.

The Weirwood face stared impassively back at him, a small heap of snow caught softly in the trough of its wide mouth.

_How could the Gods exist in such a cold, harsh place?_

Jon swallowed heftily and settled himself at the base of the tree, leaning his head against its bleached trunk and fluttering his eyelids slowly shut.

He drifted on the skirts of sleep, tumbling back through his consciousness to a memory of his youth.

As a boy of ten, Jon had been seated between Theon and Robb in the Great Hall, laughing as little Arya pulled faces for an even littler Bran. The smell of mulled wine and fresh bread lingered amidst the warm glow of candlelight.

But the scene had changed abruptly, with Lady Catelyn pulling him roughly and wordlessly from the head table. His brothers and sisters had sat by in silence.

His father had said nothing.

_It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but it had hurt all the same… it always hurt._

So Jon walked to the Godswood, his head swimming with anger. The moonlight bounced off the gloss of his dark eyes; so deeply brown they appeared almost black, ringing the reflection of the pale orb that hung so heavy and distant in the sky.

Jon hurled a rock into the hot springs before rubbing his nose roughly against his sleeve and kicking at the thick, chunky root of the Weirwood tree.

Night was settling—the laughter and music of Winterfell’s feast carried over the evening winds.

Suddenly, a twig snapped from behind him and Jon spun around.

His father stood—silhouetted in the starlight.

“Do you hate me as much as she does?” Jon blurted before he could stop himself, his voice cracking audibly. His brow furrowing piteously, he looked quickly to his boots.

Ned’s face fell and he sighed deeply before closing the gap between them. “O’ course I don’t hate you… Look at me, Jon.” He had taken Jon’s chin—still smooth and hairless—between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it upwards. “I’m proud to call you my son.”

Jon dragged his gaze again to his feet, shame and relief swelling at odds in his belly.

“Listen—it’s not fair what I’ve done to you and it’s not fair what I’ve done to Catelyn, but that’s my burden to bear—not yours… No matter how many feasts she kicks you out of,” Ned finished with the brisk laugh.

Jon cracked a reluctant smile and nodded, trying to understand.

“The world’s not an easy place, Jon—it’s not a kind place—but I’ve tried to do right by you as best I can—and that’s all a man can do.”

“I know—I never meant… It’s just—“

Ned cut him off, gripping Jon’s shoulders and pulling him into a gruff hug. “I know, son—I know.”

_What he’d give to see his father now._

“Jon… Jon… Jon!” The calls were distant.

His eyes snapped open.

_Bran? That was Bran’s voice?_

Jon jumped to his feet and swiveled his head around.

“Bran?” He called out hesitantly.

_Silence._

All of the sudden, a raven fluttered from the surrounding brush—the flap of its wings sending a spray of snowflakes raining from the warped, coiled brambles.

It coasted to a stop, settling amidst the Wierwood’s red leaves. Its beak curved sharply and regally.

“For fuck’s sake—this is the last time I follow a bloody bird!” A hoarse, familiar voice cried from the thick of the forest.

_It can’t be…_

Jon’s heart stopped as he turned again towards the clearing’s edge. And just then, Ygritte stumbled from an icy thicket of thorns, an annoyed look of determination carved on her features.

They locked eyes and her footsteps stopped, her mouth falling slack in frozen surprise.

Both Jon and Ygritte stood speechless and unmoving, only twenty or so paces between them. The wind rolled quietly through the trees.

Jon watched Ygritte’s face synch with overwhelming emotion; flushing lips trembling as her wide eyes welled with unbelieving tears. “Jon?” she whispered, her voice catching.

_Ygritte._

Feeling the full force of relief flood his body, Jon’s elbows and knees hummed fuzzily—the back of his skull buzzing. His eyes began to glisten and his mouth tugged taught as he tried to control his blossoming emotion.

Still stunned, Ygritte could say nothing. Her cheeks were lacquered with tears. “Say somethin’—Jon, do some—“ she started airily.

Overwhelmed and abruptly snapping to, Jon rushed forward then, closing the gap between them in only a matter of seconds before throwing his arms around her. Gripping tighter, he leaned in, dropping his hands to her hips. Jon pressed his forehead wordlessly against hers and then dipped his head, taking her mouth warmly within his.

He kissed her fiercely, his tongue breeching her lips urgently. She softened—returning his touch with impassioned and quiet relish.

After a few moments, Ygritte withdrew from their kiss, raising her hands and taking his face in her palms. “Are you real?” She breathed shakily, her eyes darting rapidly back and forth across his features, as though trying to take in every bit of him. Jon could feel her hot breath against the chill of his chapped cheeks.

He nodded, bringing her into a tight hug; his dark curls brushing against her cheek as he held her. “Mhmm,” he murmured the affirmation softly.

“Jon… How did… I thought you’d died… Sam…” Ygritte shook her head incredulously. “Gods, I’ll ring that fat fucker’s neck—he said…”

Jon smiled deftly before exhaling deeply. “Sam wasn’t lying… I’ve just…” He tried to find the words. “I’ve been brought back…”

“Wha’?”

“The Red Woman—She…” He stopped, finding himself unable to continue.

“ _Brought back_? I don’t—how?”

Jon shook his head sadly. “Fire… Ghost is dead.”

“Gods…” Ygritte ran her thumb loosely across his jawline. “Jon, I’m sorry… Are ya…? I can’t…”

“Shhh… Just come sit with me… Please…” Jon took her hand and walked mutely to the base of the Weirwood, where he settled beneath its broad, winding roots and pulled her flush into his lap—her back to his chest.

“How did you find me?” He asked, changing the subject pointedly as he rested his chin in the groove of her shoulder.

The reality of their reunion was only just beginning to settle for the both of them.

“I followed that crow—I swear I heard yer voice… Well—But, it wasn’t yer voice… It—Gods, Jon… I missed ya so much.” Ygritte turned in his lap.

“I missed you too,” he said softly just as Ygritte pressed her lips to his. They kissed ardently, and after a time, she dropped her hand in between his legs, cupping his groin firmly.

_“Come for me, my prince.”_

Jon winced at the memory of Melisandre’s touch, pulling back and biting his lip as he shook his head weakly. “I’m sorry—I can’t…”

A look of concern flashed across Ygritte’s face. “You’re alright?”

“I’m—I just… I just can’t right now… I’m sorry.” The Red Witch’s voice echoed in his head as he adjusted his soft member through the fabric of his britches.

Ygritte ran her tongue across her lip sympathetically. “It’s alright, Jon Snow—It’s alright,” she soothed, nestling again against his chest. She pulled at the fraying collar of his jerkin, pausing as her fingers caught on a length of twine.

Her brow furrowing, Ygritte untucked the necklace from his tunic. She examined it closely, tenderly stroking the slope of the wolf’s teeth that hung from the looped knot with the flat of her pale thumb. Jon watched her silently, his breath hitching as her cool fingers began to trace the swell of his collarbone, brushing against the thick of a mangled, puffy scar.

_It’s like she’s taking inventory… trying to make sure he’s all here…_

Ygritte looked up at him questioningly and hastily unlaced his leathers before tugging at the neckline of his tunic. She ran a shaky hand across the batch of scars strewn coarsely across his chest.

“Gods…” she whispered, horrified. “Jon… Can I… I want to see ya… I need to see _you_.”

He nodded slowly and shrugged his tunic over his head. Despite the cold, the air felt warm and heady beneath the Weirwood—within Ygritte’s grasp.

Slowly, Ygritte traipsed her fingers along his scars—the marks of his life and death. She pressed the pad of her forefinger firmly against one of the knife-marks; a raised, purpled slit just beneath his ribcage.

Jon hissed, squirming uncomfortably.

“Gods, sorry,” Ygritte breathed. “Jon… there are thirteen—ya were… were ya stabbed thirteen times?”

He nodded.

“And these…” Ygritte moved her hands to the knot in his right shoulder and then to the mark on the left side of his chest, just barely grazing the discs of his nipples as her fingers travelled across his form. “They’re…?”

“Thorne had a crossbow.” Jon smiled weakly.

Ygritte nodded curtly, obvious anger brewing behind the mask of her collectiveness. She began to unlace his breeches, pausing to look up at him—asking wordlessly for his consent. Jon hesitated, his brow knitting together before he nodded faintly.

Ygritte made quick work of undressing him; throwing his britches and smallclothes atop the pile of his other discarded garments and beginning to remove her own clothing.

“Ygritte—I—“ Jon started nervously.

“It’s alright. I won’t touch ya… I just need to be close to you.” She wrapped her cloak around the both of them—her soft skin sticking warmly against his.

“I can hear your heart thumpin’, Jon Snow…” She hugged him tighter, before letting out a short laugh. “I’m just… I’m afraid if I let ya go, you’ll disappear.”

“I won’t go anywhere.” Jon buried his face in her hair, breathing softly.

They sat together, holding each other close, as the sun made its way across the sky, until it had dipped behind the forest’s canopy, sending darkness falling across the land. The cloak fell from their forms as they slumbered and shifted lightly—their embrace more than enough to keep them warm.

Ygritte smelled of frost and fire, and Jon ran his eyes down her body, thinking how much she resembled the Wierwood itself—her alabaster limbs stretched and splayed against the pale roots of the tree; her ginger hair fanned wildly, cascading down to her shoulders beneath the cover of similarly scarlet leaves.

_His woman from the north._

He swore he could see her belly beginning to swell, if only ever so slightly.

_Their child._

Ygritte stirred in Jon’s arms, reaching up and bouncing the sprig of white hair, which tufted from his curls, on her finger. She laughed then, pulling herself upright and straddling his hips with her knees. She pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. “Yer new hair suits ya, Jon Snow.”

As she withdrew, Jon’s full lips curled into a warm smile. He rubbed her shoulders gently. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“If this is a dream, Jon Snow, then I don’t want ta wake up,” Ygritte cooed wistfully.


	39. XXXIX

**Ygritte:**

Moving through the depths of The Haunted Forest, the towering, branchless trees cast thin, pillared shadows striping across the morning’s tepid pink snow.

Ygritte watched both her and Jon’s shadowy figures (simplified into the stretching shapes of two thick cloaks perched atop a pair of elongated blue legs apiece) move noiselessly across the forest floor.

She chuckled throatily, bounding ahead of Jon. The ends of her cloak were bunched in her outstretched arms; raised high so she could see the full contour of her thin body’s frame silhouetted in the snow. Ygritte's reflecting form moved with grace, whirling playfully through the shadowed world expanding beneath their feet.

Jon approached, stopping when he reached her and shifting the weight of his feet. He canted his shoulders, a sluggishly bemused grin spanning his face.

After tonguing the flesh of her bottom lip teasingly, Ygritte leaned in, pecking a quick kiss against his cheek and moving back to his side, taking his warm hand within her own.

_He’s really here._

She’d felt giddy all morning; ever since they awoke at the foot of the Wierwood. But the need to talk about all that had happened—the need to understand—was closing in around her faster than winter itself. She began to feel uneasy, dozens of burning questions filling her headspace.

Jon, for his part, had been largely quiet.

_Though not really an unusual feat for Jon Snow…_

She smirked discreetly to herself before pulling her face into a sobered mask of confrontation. “Jon, ya’ve got ta talk to me.” Ygritte ran the pad of her thumb encouragingly along the back of his hand.

Jon’s thick brow collected in agonized introspection as he rolled the plump of his bottom lip between his two front teeth.

_Gods, he has lookin’ miserable down to an art form._

“It’s alright,” she half-laughed. “Ya _can_ talk to me, Jon Snow.” And although Ygritte made light of her probing, her heart was pumping uncomfortably fast inside the cavity of her chest.

_Death must change a man?_

Jon sighed deeply before twisting to face her, his dark eyes shining amidst an expression calmer than the one he had been wearing just seconds before. “What do you want to know?”

Ygritte shook her head as her mind whirred—throwing up her free hand in a gesture of flustered searching. “I—“ she began, trying to focus her complete lack of direction. “All of it—you said you were with the Red Woman?”

Her stomach fluttered, remembering the night The Priestess’ had entered Jon’s tent—Ygritte had never quite heard the whole story, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to… and she trusted Jon even if she didn’t trust the woman from Asshai.

Jon nodded slowly in answer to her question. “In a shack in Mole’s Town.”

“Alright…” she prodded gently. “For how long?”

Jon’s face scrunched in thought. “I don’t know—ever since I was stabbed, I suppose… how long has that been?”

“Eleven days,” Ygritte whispered automatically.

“Aye—then eleven days… I was—“ he hesitated. “I think I was asleep for a lot of it.”

“So… Where is she now—The Red Woman?”

“Dead.”

“Dead?”

“I put my sword through her heart,” he said.

Ygritte stopped suddenly in her tracks, though she quickly tried to rein in her surprise for fear it might upset Jon. She picked up her pace again.

_He’d said it so coldly…_

It wasn’t so much the woman’s death that bothered Ygritte (in fact truthfully, she was relieved and even slightly overjoyed by it), but instead, Jon’s apparent indifference towards it.

Collecting herself, she attempted to make light of it all. “Well, if it’s killin’ ya’ve got a taste for, Jon Snow, the Free Folk ‘ave been gettin’ together—we march on Castle Black as soon as we can… I had made Munda promise to save Thorne and Slynt for me… but I’ll share with you if ya like.” Ygritte’s mouth stretched into a warm smile.

Jon snorted bitterly, wincing. “Slynt is dead too.” 

His face darkened harshly as he pulled her along and it gnawed at her again—Jon’s uncharacteristic lack of remorse.

_What had happened to him?_

“When?” Ygritte asked quietly, eyeing him warily.

Jon took a deep breath. “Just before I travelled to The Whitetree… I stopped in Castle Black first, to speak with Maester Aemon—to find word of you… And I found him there—Ser Janos.”

“Right.” Ygritte nodded, understandingly. “And Ghost?” Her voice had a slight tremor to it.

Jon barked a sorrowfully genuine laugh. “I didn’t kill Ghost if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ygritte smiled sadly. “That’s not what I was getting’ at, Jon Snow.”

He nodded curtly. “I can’t say what truly happened—I don’t remember it… But Melisandre said he climbed on the pyre himself as some sort of… _Sacrifice_ … Whatever that means,” Jon finished dejectedly.

The two of them continued their walk in silence for several minutes.

_How did it feel to die… to come back?_

“Jon?”

_Just Jon… Her Jon._

“Mmm?”

“Why did the Red Woman do it—bring you back?” Ygritte asked tentatively. “I mean—I know she thought you were pretty and all...” Ygritte laughed experimentally.

“Mmm” Jon let out a forcibly awkward chuckle, which ended up translating more as a strained whine.

She’d obviously hit a nerve, so Ygritte continued hurriedly, trying to move past his discomfort. “…But I never heard of anythin’ like this… This isn’t like with the wights… You’re still… Well, you’re still _Jon Snow_ as far as I can tell—or if you’re not, then you’re the most talkative wight I’ve ever met… Broodin' silences and all.”

Jon smiled before sighing loudly. “Have you heard of Azor Ahai?” He asked.

Ygritte shook her head, her thin brows collecting in thought.

“In the faith of R’hllor—The Lord of Light—Azor Ahai is a figure from thousands of years ago. He’s said to have waged the war against the Great Other, and he’s said to have won.”

“Alright…”

“And there’s a prophecy that he’ll be reborn to do the same—to lead the fight against The Walkers during the Long Night. He’s to be resurrected amongst smoke and fire… The blood of the dragon.”

_Winter is coming…_

Understanding was just scratching at Ygritte’s awareness.

“And…” Jon blanched, continuing. “Well… The Red Woman… She thought I might be…” He faltered.

Ygritte inhaled a sharp breath. “Wha’ that you’re this reborn Prince?”

Jon nodded humbly, a slightly embarrassed reluctance in his expression.

“So she put ya on a pyre and brought ya back?”

“Aye… And… Well, there’s one more thing.” Jon reached to his belt, stepping back and pulling Longclaw from his sheath in one fluid motion. The slide of steel against the fortified leather rang out through the quiet forest.

He held the sword at arms length between them and Ygritte took several steps back in shock.

Its blade surged with a brilliant fire before her.

“The Promised Prince is said to have a flaming sword… called Lightbringer.” Jon said, his voice low and rolling. “It’s been glowing ever since I awoke… But it’s only been like _this_ since the Red Woman’s been dead… Since I burned her body.”

Her eyes wide, Ygritte reached out a curious finger towards Longclaw. “And those flames—they don’t hurt? Ya don’t feel them against yer leg?” She asked, awe in her voice.

“No… I can feel its warmth, but nothing more.” Jon held steady. “Ygritte—“ he said warningly.

But Ygritte pushed her hand boldly forward nonetheless, only to cry out as the flames burst, singeing her bare fingers. “Oh!” She pulled back quickly. “It’s hot!” She sucked on her scorched digits, laughing almost shyly. “It don’t burn ya?”

Jon shook his head before cracking a smile. “Are you impressed?” He jested, a funny blend of self-degrading arrogance dripping from his words.

And in that moment, Ygritte could weep for the sheer joy of his comforting, lightened demeanor.

_There he was—her sulky, proud man who despite himself, will make jokes at his own expense… for her… only for her…_

She laughed loudly, slipping into their routine. “Gods, ya don’t ‘ave ta be such a man about it!” Ygritte dropped her voice a few decibels. “Oh, I’m Jon Snow—Does my _long,_ fancy sword impress you?”

Jon coughed a laugh and rolled his eyes in annoyance as he sheathed Longclaw; her innuendo not going unnoticed.

“But… So it’s true then?” Ygritte said, bringing the conversation back to its previous level of seriousness—her tone hushed as she retook his hand.

“I—I’m not a Prince, though.”

“But weren’t them Stark lot kings way back when?”

Jon shrugged. “I suppose—Though for what it’s worth, the Red Witch guessed there might be Targaryen blood from my mother’s side… Whoever she was.”

They were nearing The Wall—The Nightfort. Ygritte scoffed humorously, “What, bein’ a Lord’s son isn’t enough for ya? So ya had ta go and be a Prince too?

Jon grinned weakly and continued walking.

“Jon?” Ygritte began, after a few more wordless steps. “Do ya—Do ya believe it—This prophecy?”

He looked to her. “I don’t know—I don’t know what to think... Up until now, I’ve not really thought about anything but finding you.”

She took a deep breath. “Well because I—I think that awful woman might ‘ave been right… With your sword and…” Ygritte’s words cut off. “What will you do?” She whispered—the loaded question hanging heavy in the air as her lips pressed tightly together.

Noticing her growing distress, Jon took her face in his hands. “Look… I don’t know what to think—who I am—But I don’t care. I _do_ know that we have a baby coming and that The Long Night approaches… And… This doesn’t change anything… We have to fight when the time comes—we always knew that, but this doesn’t change how I feel about you or—“

Ygritte pressed her lips forcefully against his and Jon responded in like fashion, pulling her close; their hips pushing together as his fingers ran through her hair.

_She didn’t understand it all—couldn’t grasp it, but it didn’t matter… He was here and he was hers._

Ygritte stepped back, squeezing his hand lovingly before leading him wordlessly to the tunnel’s entrance, her knees bending with the slant of the hill’s incline.


	40. XL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** Some discussion/emotional processing of a previous rape/sexual assault.
> 
> Probably the longest POV yet--spent too long nitpicking and headaching, so I'm just gonna go ahead and put this janx up.

**Jon:**

Jon's and Ygritte’s steady footfalls echoed off the stone walls of the tunnel—the pinprick of evening light at its far-off entrance illuminating the blue dirt of their path. They moved along the hazy passageway as the growing roar of the wind hummed in a vortex around them.

The day had been spent preparing for the assault on Castle Black—collecting armor, fletching arrows, and sharpening swords. The Free Folk had finally rallied and the march to the castle would begin at dawn.

Over the course of the past few hours, Jon had stayed largely by Ygritte’s side, and the couple had more or less fallen into their established routines and teases, if for no reason other than to feel as though things were back to normal.

_But they weren’t. How could they be?_

The night before, as they’d slept on their pallet in the crowded, dilapidated hall of the ruined fort (amidst the communal grumble of hundreds of snoring Free Folk), Ygritte had made a move.

She’d reached inside Jon’s smallclothes, pulling gently and breathing sloppily as she steamed loving kisses along the arch of his neck. But Jon had lay still—his stomach squirming and his eyes shut tightly; every part of his body almost as rigid as his cock was soft. 

And so with a mixture of resigned embarrassment and relief, Jon had pushed her quietly away, shaking his head and rolling miserably to his side. Ygritte huffed an exasperated breath and Jon’s throat tightened with hurt and self-directed anger.

_How could he tell her about what had happened?_

But after an hour had passed, during which Jon assumed Ygritte had fallen asleep, he was surprised to find her shifting in their furs, pressing against him and running her fingers through the tangle of his hair. She had kissed his shoulder softly, remnants of tears still staining her cheeks. “I love you, Jon Snow,” she’d said.

Were he able to rise to the occasion, Jon would have turned and taken her right there. But instead, he’d fallen asleep silently—his heart aching; a sad smile on his lips.

The memory made him grimace, stirring up a whirl of shamed, muddled feelings. And now, as Jon walked through the tunnel with Ygritte, it was with increasing amounts of curdling anxiety that he anticipated the looming weight of yet another night’s approach.

_The promised intimacy of a shared bed approaching with it…_

He dragged a hand roughly down his face, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly against his eyes as though to force out the memory of the Red Woman’s cold gaze.

_Gods, he could survive rebirth, kill a witch and a former City Watch commander, wield a flaming sword, and sneak unnoticed into a manned castle, but he couldn’t get his fucking cock up. Hells, even when he had still considered himself a man of the Night’s Watch, the sight of Ygritte could make him hard as a rock in a matter of seconds… He certainly didn’t feel any differently about her now… So what was he afraid of?_

“Jon Snow! I’ll race ya!” Ygritte chuckled, dragging him from his bitter musings—her voice spiraling down the tunnel until the reverberations faded. She stepped in front of him, tonguing her cheek teasingly; a gleam in her eye.

Jon scratched at his beard lackadaisically. “We should save our energy for the morning,” he said, already knowing the futility of his words.

Ygritte scoffed, throwing him an amused glare. “’Fraid you’ll lose?”

“No.”

Ygritte pushed him playfully. “Liar.”

“To the end of the tunnel?” Jon sighed reluctantly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Aye.”

As Ygritte moved again to his side, Jon feigned casualty, nodding his head slowly before shouting “Onetwothreego!” He took off in a heated sprint.

“Oi!” Jon could hear Ygritte yell from behind him, her boots beginning to slap thunderously against the packed dirt as she ripped after him.

It felt good to run and he found himself whooping out a laugh just before Ygritte slammed her hips into his, effectively throwing him into the rough of the slate wall.

_Typical._

Jon grunted loudly then, pushing himself determinedly from the stones and surging forward again. The tunnel’s entrance was nearing rapidly, and at the last moment, he hurtled past Ygritte and into the open, twilight air.

Panting loudly, Jon collapsed in the snow—his chest rising and falling with the heaviness of his breaths.

Only a few seconds later, Ygritte dropped to the ground next to him. “You cheated, Jon Snow,” she puffed as she caught her breath, before rolling over onto him and pinning his shoulders to the forest floor.

Jon winced—his momentarily heady mood replaced quickly by the anxious discomfort that was quickly becoming all too familiar. He tried to laugh. “But I still won, didn’t I?”

“Hmm,” Ygritte’s laugh was noncommittal and she began tracing her thumb across the plane of his bearded chin.

Distracted as he noticed the burned tips of her fingers, Jon’s brow furrowed and he grabbed her hand gently. “Do these hurt?” He asked, genuine concern in his voice.

“No,” she grinned. “Just a bit singed is all… Kissed by fire—that’s me.” And then Ygritte leaned down, pressing her lips firmly against his.

Jon felt his breath hitch. “Stop,” he said pushing her away and searching desperately for any excuse. “I’ve—I’ve got to piss.”

Ygritte’s face clouded noticeably and much to his shame, Jon could read the telltale sign of hurt collapse on her features. “Right,” she said softly, sitting back on her knees. “I’ll just get the firewood then.”

_Gods. He can’t carry on like this._

Jon stood up with bashful wariness and walked his way behind some brush before steadying his stance at the base of a thin tree. He reached inside his breeches—his hand only just ghosting over his penis before coming to an abrupt halt.

A rustling from his side had made him jump and Jon turned slowly around. “What… Did you want to watch?” He asked sardonically, trying desperately to lighten their coupled tension despite his soured mood.

But as the unexpected figure fully emerged from the thick of the nearby pines, Jon’s jaw dropped.

He pulled his hand quickly from his smalls and took several stunned steps forward. “Uncle Benjen?” Jon croaked.

Benjen Stark stood before Jon, lean and scrappy. His face was gaunt—a thick, wiry black beard sprouting around the line of his thin mouth. He was covered in scars and scratches, looking even more like a man who had been beyond the grave than Jon Snow did himself.

“Jon,” Benjen rasped, staggering towards his nephew and pulling him into a tight embrace.

Jon’s head whirred. “Where have you—?”

But Benjen cut Jon off, pushing his shoulders gently back and taking a good look. His blue eyes glimmered with painful sentimentality. “You look so like Ned, Jon.”

“Uncle,” Jon began again, his voice raspy from shock. “You’ve been missing for… Gods, I don’t know—how did…?”

Benjen smiled with cheerless warmth. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Jon.”

But before Jon could muster a response, Ygritte’s voice cut through the cool dusk air. “Aye—I’ve been tellin’ him that for a long time.” She said steadily.

Surprised yet again, Jon snapped his head in Ygritte’s direction. She stood behind Benjen—her elbow cocked and her bow readied. A small pile of discarded branches and timber lay at her feet.

“Ygritte—“ Jon started.

But Benjen simply turned, his hands raised calmly as a sign of passivity. “Ah… He said you’d found yourself a woman.”

Jon shook his head confusedly before gesturing a gently halting hand in Ygritte’s direction. “Ygritte, this is my Uncle Benjen, he—put your bow down—Uncle, what are—what’s happened?”

“You might as well do as he says and join us,” Benjen said to Ygritte with a weak smile—a smile that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes. “This might take awhile.” He then moved slowly to a fallen log—wiping the snow from its bark and taking a seat before gesturing to the space next to him.

Jon followed suit, settling himself atop the log beside his uncle and hastily retying the placket of his breeches—too bewildered to feel any embarrassment. Ygritte, meanwhile, had lowered her bow. But refusing to sit, she walked slowly towards the log and stood before the two men—staring down at Benjen with a suspicious gaze.

Jon looked imploringly at Benjen, who took a deep breath before beginning. “I suppose it all began with that ranging mission so long ago.” His deep northern accent rolled the words in a way that felt so familiar to Jon—so comfortable.

Jon nodded slowly—dark eyes darting quickly back and forth; his brow crumpled in thought as he tried to recall all that had happened in his early days at The Watch. “Aye… You left only days after we made it to Castle Black—I’d only just begun my training... But, then I took my vows beneath the WhiteTree and we found…” With a shiver, Jon remembered the milky, inhuman gaze of the walking dead stumbling through Commander Mormont’s chambers. “…Othor and Jafer—they’d been turned to wights. How did—“ The words tumbled excitedly from his mouth.

“Slow down, Jon.” Benjen said with a warm tone.

Jon huffed with light chagrin, feeling like the impatient boy he had once been in his uncle’s presence.

Benjen began once more. “We were ambushed.“

“Wildlings?” Jon asked (silencing himself quickly under the heat of Ygritte’s resulting glare).

“Walkers.” Benjen said smoothly. “It was cold that night—the kind of cold that creeps into your bones… And all of the sudden, they were on us—came out of the forest—ten or twelve of them… I don’t remember. Othor and Jafer were killed quickly. I tried to fight, but the moment my sword touched one of them, it shattered to ice…” Benjen’s eyes held a haunted glow. “So I picked up a branch from the fire—It didn’t help much, but I set some trees ablaze… I think it caught them off guard… Anyway, it gave me a chance to get away.”

The group was silent for a moment before Jon spoke up again. “So where did you go—why not return to Castle Black?”

“I’d meant to—initially. But one night, as I was moving through the stony highlands, I heard it—a voice calling out for me… At first I thought I was going mad, but it—”

“What did it say?” Ygritte asked abruptly, startling both men as she moved even closer to the log.

Benjen looked up at her coolly, his sloping profile backlit by the setting sun. “Go north… Does that mean anything to you?”

A curious look of surprise spread slowly across Ygritte’s face. “Aye,” she answered cautiously, “It’s how I found him.” She gestured to Jon. “Well—that and a three-eyed raven.”

Benjen nodded knowingly. “And you had the tree dreams, I imagine?” He asked, a soft smile on his lips.

“You saw them too?”

“The dreams—yes. I couldn’t shake them, and I couldn’t stop hearing the voice—it was something ancient… like it came from the forest itself.”

_Stranger things had certainly happened._

Jon ran his tongue nervously across the pout of his dry lips. “So you went north?”

“Aye, Jon—So I went north… I followed the whispers of the trees… The north is harsh and I got lost many times,” he laughed bitterly. “But the voices grew louder—clearer—and one morning, I rounded the swell of a hill, and there it was—the tree I’d been seeing every night since I’d lost my men; a cave nestled at its base...”

The setting sun had finally dipped behind the coniferous canopy, casting Jon, Benjen, and Ygritte only in the dulled light of the waning moon. A light snowfall hushed the forest.

Benjen swallowed thickly, turning to Jon with growing seriousness. “I found Bran in that cave.” He said.

Jon’s heart leapt.

“Bran?” His mouth went dry and suddenly his own dreams came rushing back to him—Bran’s face embedded in the Wierwood, three red eyes looking back at him from amongst the bleached, ancient bark.

Ygritte moved wordlessly over and took a seat next to Jon, stretching her long fingers lovingly over the knot of his bent knee.

“He’s alive?” Jon asked airily. “And Rickon—?”

Benjen shook his head sadly. “I don’t know where Rickon is, Jon. But Bran—yes…” He hesitated. “But he’s more than just Bran now; he’s many things.”

“How? What does that mean?” Jon asked, his voice beginning to grumble with frustrated anger.

“Old Magic—The Children of the Forest, Greenseeing—Bran’s as much a part of the Old Gods now as he is a part of our world.”

“I don’t understand.”

Benjen sighed kindly. “I don’t expect you to, Jon—Bran’s journey is his own.”

Jon scratched his head, this new information as difficult to process as everything else that had transpired over the past fortnight. “But he’s still… he’s still Bran? He’s still _himself_ —my brother?”

“In some ways.” Benjen answered carefully.

_Fuck’s sake…_

“Well did he—did he say anything?” Jon’s temper was flaring, but he tried to keep his tone even.

“Aye,” Benjen answered softly. “He talked of many things, but most importantly, Jon, he talked of you.”

“Of me?”

Benjen nodded, meeting Jon’s gaze deliberately. “Not many men can say they’ve been to the other side of the grave, Jon…”

_He knows…_

Jon’s heart pounded in his ears as Ygritte’s fingers tensed on his knee. “There is no other side…” He said coldly. “It’s just black.”

Benjen smirked sadly. “Be that as it may, you still sit before me now—a man reborn.”

The distant bugle of an elk cut the forest’s silence.

“And Bran could see that?” Jon asked quietly, after a moment’s pause.

“Aye—Bran could see that… And more. By now you should know of the prophecy—of The Promised Prince… The Red Woman has told you?”

Jon took a shaky breath, feeling his exhausted resentment towards the Red Woman’s talk of prophecy bubble up again. “Aye.”

“Good.”

“So it’s true then?” Ygritte jumped in, her question forward in its simplicity. “Jon’s this Azor… _Whatever_?”

Benjen chuckled starkly, his blue eyes glistening. “Yes—Jon’s this Azor _Whatever_ …”

And with that, Jon’s patience finally broke, all of his anger at the world boiling to the surface.

_…Anger at convoluted riddles and Gods, anger at prophecies, anger at The Watch and Melisandre, anger at honor and glory and kings, anger at life, at death, and anger at his godsdamned useless cock!_

“Does it really matter?” Jon said harshly.

“Does it really matter?” Benjen repeated—a look of confused surprise splashing across his pale face.

“Aye!” Jon pushed himself from the log, standing up heatedly. “What does it matter what some old prophecy says? I don’t want to be a promised anything—I didn’t ask for this! What does it matter who The Red Woman wants me to be—who you want me to be?”

“This isn’t about what we want—it’s about who you’re meant—“ Benjen began.

But Jon interrupted furiously. “That’s horseshit! Aye, I’ll fight the Walkers when they come, but—“

Suddenly, Benjen stood too, his face flushing fiercely as he leveled himself with his nephew. “And how will you do that, Jon? One burning sword alone isn’t enough to fight off winter!” He waved to Longclaw resting at Jon’s hip.

_So he knows about that too…_

“I won’t be alone.” Jon growled, grasping the pommel of his sword defensively. “The Free Folk—“

“No, Jon, you won’t be alone… But it won’t just be The Free Folk who you’ll need by your side to win this war…”

“Who then?”

Benjen took a step back to calm the tension before answering steadily. “The dragons.”

_He’s lost it._

Jon stared back at his uncle, barking out a disbelieving laugh. “Dragons? There haven’t been dragons alive in over 300 years!”

“And men don’t rise from the dead either, but here you stand, nephew.” Benjen said coolly.

Jon exhaled deeply, hoisting a calloused hand to his brow and kneading tensely as he tried to calm himself. After a few moments, he spoke again. “Look, I want to—I trust you and I trust Bran—I can’t deny the flaming sword or…” he scoffed, “Or the rebirth… And I know winter’s coming—I know that… I’ve known it since I was a boy… I’ll do my best to fight it back—do what I can… But at the end of the day, Uncle, I’m just one man… I’m still just _Jon Snow_ , the bastard boy from Winterfell.”

Benjen nodded apologetically. “The Bastard of Winterfell, yes… But Jon, Ned Stark wasn’t your father.”

Jon’s blood suddenly ran cold, his stomach turning. “What?”

“I’m sorry… You’re not Ned Stark’s son, Jon—you’re my sister’s… you’re Lyanna’s.”

_Lyanna’s…_

The ground spun. “But…?”

“After the sack of King’s Landing, Ned climbed the steps of the Red Tower in Dorne… Where he found Lyanna dying from fever,” Benjen said greviously. “…And where he found you—a babe just born.”

Jon’s head felt suddenly full of wool. “Then if… Who’s my real father?” He asked, his voice hoarse.

_It could only be…_

“Rhaegar Targaryen.” Benjen answered gravely.

Jon felt sick. “Did you—” His voice caught in his throat. “Did you know the whole time?”

“No.” Benjen put a firm hand on Jon’s shoulder and shook his head sadly. “No—No one knew… Only your fa—only Ned.”

Jon shook lightly free of Benjen’s grip and returned to the log, sitting down next to Ygritte, who wrapped her hands firmly around his bicep, holding him close as he stared blankly at the snow.

Benjen stroked his beard restlessly.

“So Bran told you all this?” Jon asked, trying to keep the speculation from his voice.

Benjen nodded and Jon again fell silent in thought.

“Why didn’t my father…” Jon blanched, unable to bring himself to call Ned by any other name… “Why didn’t he tell me?” Jon asked after a spell, looking up—his words dripping with hurt.

Benjen sighed deeply. “To protect you, Jon. You’re the rightful heir to the Iron Throne… If anyone had known your true identity, you’d have been butchered along side little Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat before speaking anew. “My mother… Lyanna… She died having me?” He knew the answer to his question before the words had even left his mouth.

“She did.” Benjen nodded remorsefully.

Jon then sucked his cheeks angrily. “And Rhaegar Targaryen—my _father_ …“ He practically spat the word. “Is it true… That he kidnapped her? Raped her?”

Benjen regarded Jon sadly. “I don’t know, Jon… I can’t tell you if she loved him… I wish I could. But I do know that she must have loved you fiercely—just as Ned did.”

The group sat in silence for several minutes as the reality sank in. Ygritte scratched her fingers soothingly along Jon’s back while Benjen paced, still worrying his beard with bony fingers.

Jon finally broke the quiet. “So… What do I do now? You… You said dragons… They still exist?”

“Yes, Jon. Three of them—In Essos… With Daenerys Stormborn.”

“The Targaryen Princess?” Jon recalled her from his studies as a boy. “She’s alive?”

“Yes—The Targaryen Princess… And your aunt by relation—she lives; raised in exile—in secrecy.”

Jon ran his fingers through his hair with agitation. “So… What? Do you want me to march on her hideout, steal her dragons, and demand my birthright as her bastard nephew?” He said bitterly.

Benjen smiled. “No, Jon. You won’t need to do that—but you will need to join her… You’ll need to travel to Meereen.”

“Meereen!?” Jon all but shouted with disbelief. “Uncle, Meereen is thousands of leagues east of here—The Others march for Westeros as we speak and you want me to travel across The Narrow Sea to see some dragons? If I am this Azor Ahai like everybody seems to think, then surely I need to at least be in the north when The Walkers come?”

Benjen sighed. “You won’t win the war without the dragons, Jon, and the people of Essos don’t even know there’s a real war worth fighting. I’m afraid you have to go…”

_To join her…_

“So this aunt of mine?” Jon began disparagingly “This aunt who I’ve never met—who doesn’t even know I exist… She’s just supposed to believe me when I show up on her doorstep talking of prophecies and White Walkers?”

“There aren’t any other choices, Jon.” Benjen’s voice was firm. “When winter does come—when the ice creeps through the cracks in The Wall to choke the life from every innocent man, woman, and child in Westeros—then dragonfire will be all that’s left to stop it.”

Jon shut his eyes tightly in thought, his dismay worsening with every word Benjen spoke. “And Bran says I’m to do this…?”

Benjen nodded and Jon again sat quiet.

“Alright. I’ll go to Meereen.” Jon said after a long minute. He turned to Ygritte with seriousness. “But, you’re pregnant.”

Ygritte scoffed, elbowing his side. “I can be pregnant _and_ sit on a boat, Jon Snow.”

Jon took a strand of her hair delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “Is that what you want—to come with me?” He looked into her eyes, his somberness matched only by her stubborn energy.

She laughed tersely. “O’ course I’m comin’ with ya, Gods! I just got you back—What? Ya think I’ll just let you slip through my fingers again?”

And then, with his heart bursting, Jon grabbed the back of her head, pulling her into an urgent kiss.

_This is what matters._

“But what if—“ He pulled back.

“We don’t have time for _what ifs_ , Jon Snow.” She said, growing serious as well. “You Starks say it best, _winter is comin’_ , and all I know is that I’ll be by your side when it comes in earnest. This is what you have ta do, Jon… What _we_ have ta do.”

Jon nodded slowly, the relief and comfort, which Ygritte gave him doing well in mitigating the fear of the unknown.

He looked again to Benjen, suddenly remembering his presence. “Uncle, The Watch—The Free Folk march on it tomorrow… They mean to take it over.”

“Aye, and I mean to help them—The Watch has no place left in this world. But you—you and Ygritte must leave as quickly as you can. Leave tonight and travel to Eastwatch… Cotter Pyke is a reasonable man—he’ll lend you a boat, and you can sail to Essos from there.”

“Alright.” Jon stood up, pulling Ygritte to her feet beside him.

The stars hung heavy and distant in the sky, and in that moment, everything held a vastness Jon couldn’t quite comprehend.

“Let’s go meet your aunt, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said, gripping his hand tightly and flashing Jon a supportive smile. “I’ve always wanted to see the rest of the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long ole journey to Meereen in the coming chapters.


	41. XLI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** More discussion/emotional processing of a previous rape/sexual assault.

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte’s horse rumbled a throaty exhale—the sweet smell of its slick hide cutting through the crisp cold of the winter air.

They’d been riding through the night and into the morning, the snowfall just having picked up within the last hour. At Benjen’s suggestion, Jon and Ygritte would initially cut south before shifting their direction to the east, so as to give Castle Black a wide birth during its upcoming attack.

_After all, they had more important things to do than help take over some old Crow Castle._

Jon rode quietly to Ygritte’s left, his mare ambling steadily through the thickening snow; the swell of her dappled gray hips bobbing in time with the rise and fall of her steps.

Prior to their departure, as Ygritte readied the horses, she had overheard Jon and Benjen, in the stable’s alcoves, sharing a few last words. Jon stressed urgently that despite the ultimate necessity of The Watch’s extermination, Castle Black still had men who could be trusted—good men who needn’t die in the takeover and who would likely join the Free Folk once learning of Jon’s role in the war to come. Pyp and Grenn were amongst the few mentioned whom Ygritte recognized.

But Jon had also shared with Benjen his list of men who didn’t deserve such patience—who would have to die for the sake of utility if not for the sake of justice. He’d rattled off the names soberly—Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, and several others. Following the twelfth name, Jon had faltered. And it was only after a weighty moment of silence that he’d spoken again. “Olly,” he’d said sadly. “The boy made his choice.”

Benjen had clapped Jon on the shoulder then, wished him strength, and left for the Nightfort’s armory. 

Ygritte and Jon had set out only shortly thereafter, under the cover of darkness.

The pinpoint of the distant stars was quickly replaced by flecks of floating snow as the night rolled into morning. And as the day went on, Ygritte’s stomach continued to turn more and more uneasily. With all that was happening—Jon’s prophesized regality, the growing babe inside her, anticipated travel to a land so foreign it was barely comprehensible—Ygritte needed desperately to feel as though Jon and she were one again—like they had been before. But Jon had been distant, rejecting her sexual advances and offering up very little conversationally.

_What wasn’t he telling her?_

“You alright?” Ygritte asked, her tone light despite the gravity of the question.

Jon licked his lips restlessly and turned his head towards her before giving a hefty sigh. “I’ve been thinking about my mother.” His eyebrows were creased together with that same, almost painful seriousness, which so oft painted his features.

“Oh?” And when it was clear that Jon would offer up nothing further, Ygritte continued to probe. “Did yer—did Ned Stark… Did he ever talk about her—Lyanna?”

The wind ceased its whistle. And for just a moment, the only sounds were that of their horses’ glossy hooves crunching through the snow and of the jostling squeak of their saddles’ leather.

“Just once…” Jon paused before going on. “One morning—I was young… maybe ten. It was very early… And the sun had only just risen, but I heard noises coming from the hallway. I found my father—“ Jon grimaced but did not adjust his word choice upon continuing. “—He was standing in front of the tapestry which hung just outside my chambers—my Grandfather Rickard Stark’s family portrait.”

_Aye—she knew the one from the time she’d spent at Winterfell… It was massive… With rich silvers and greens weaving archaic patterns around several long, somber faces sewed into the fabric._

Jon carried on with his story. “And when I got close enough, I could tell—well, he looked as though he’d been crying. It surprised me—I’d never seen him cry before…” He exhaled laboriously. “Anyway, he didn’t say anything at first—just pointed to Lyanna’s face… Gods, and even woven in thread, she looked so much like Arya…” Jon shook his head slightly, as though trying to keep himself on track. “And then he told me how brave she was—and headstrong and loving… and beautiful.” His voice cracked. “He told me he wished I could have known her… And that she could have known me... I never really understood why he’d said it… I suppose I do now though,” Jon finished sadly.

“She’d be proud of the man you are, Jon Snow… And so would he—Ned, I mean... Yer father.” Ygritte said softly.

Jon cracked a weak smile. “He’s not my father though—not really.”

“Jon, he raised you—“ Ygritte said firmly. “And he loved you all the same… It don’t matter that you’re not his blood.”

“But it does, Ygritte.” Jon snapped, stopping his horse as his voice rose with frustration. “That’s why we’re going to Meereen… Because the man who I thought was my father—he’s not… And Robb and Sansa—Bran and Rickon… and _Arya_ …” His voice caught again. “They’re not my brothers and sisters…. Everything I thought—my whole life—my whole family… It was all a lie…”

Ygirtte stalled her horse closely next to his—their hanging knees almost touching from astride their different mounts. “Jon… he did it—to protect you.”

“And do you think that makes it any easier?” He growled with a sudden flash of anger. “Ygritte, as early on as I can remember, one of the only things I’ve ever been proud of—it was being Ned Stark’s son… But now I’ve learned that’s not even true! I’m the son of Rhaegar Targaryen—a kidnapper and a raper—a man whose selfish actions brought about the fall of an entire empire… Brought about the deaths of thousands of people.”

Ygritte was close enough to see his temples pulsing. His eyes looked wild with pain and fury.

“Aye Jon Snow,” She answered coolly, surprised by the heat of Jon’s outburst, but trying to maintain her calm for his sake. “Ya may be half Targaryen, but you’re still half Stark too —yer mother was a Stark… don’t forget that. This—whoever your parents were, it don’t change who you are—who _Jon Snow_ is.”

Bewildered rage flashed across his face. “Of course it does!” Jon shouted sharply. “Gods, Ygritte, have you been listening?”

At his tone, Ygirtte jerked back in hurt indignation before spurring her horse onward. She grit her teeth angrily, bouncing up and down in the saddle—her head pounding.

_She was only tryin’ to help…_

After a few minutes, Jon caught up from behind. Ygritte didn’t turn around.

“I’m sorry, Ygritte.” He said, his voice thick with sincerity. “I shouldn’t have—“

But Ygritte cut him off, whipping her head to him as his horse stopped beside hers. “I’m your woman, Jon Snow. And we’re in this together—don’t push me away.” Her tone was stern in its urgency

Jon grimaced, dropping his eyes shamefully. “I know. I’m sorry. I…” He began, obviously struggling for the words and fiddling with his hair despairingly. “I don’t mean to be… I just—“ He spun a silver curl uneasily through his fingers, his voice as deep as it was heartbreaking. “I don’t want to be a Targaryen… And I don’t want any throne.”

Ygritte reached out and took the bits of pale hair from his forlorn hold, tenderly running them through her own fingers. “Then don’t take the throne, Jon Snow… We’re going to Meereen because that’s what your brother said ta do—not to make you some silly, stripy-haired King o’ dragons.” Ygritte said with an experimental smirk.

To her relief, Jon laughed before reaching out and taking her hand within his.

“And no matter who yer parents _were_ … You still get a choice in who you _are_ , Jon.”

He worried his lip between his teeth and nodded quietly.

_Gods, she hated seeing him like this… So torn up…_

“So quit choosin’ ta be such a right fool.” Ygritte smiled, prompting another chuckle from Jon. “Gods, and if not for your own sake, then for mine—this trip to Meereen will feel a lot longer if you’re whingin’ on the whole time.” She stroked the back of his hand gently with her thumb, so as to soften the blow of her teasing.

“Alright—but _just_ for your sake,” Jon quipped, grinning sheepishly.

Ygritte smiled fondly at him before speaking again. “We should make camp, Jon Snow. We’ve been ridin’ since last night—it’ll give the horses a rest.”

Jon nodded and slipped from his mount as Ygritte did the same. Together, they readied their camp—Jon leading the horses to a nearby tree and Ygritte rolling out their furs beneath the overhanging shelter of a large rock.

By the time Jon had watered the horses and made his way again to Ygritte, she had managed to get a small fire going. And sitting there on the furs, she patted the space next to her, the invitation carrying the undeniable air of a challenge.

And after a moment’s hesitation and an uncomfortable shifting on his feet, Jon slowly walked over and stretched himself out beside her on the pallet.

He dropped a heavy hand to her crossed knee—squeezing gently before rolling over with a grunt; his back turned to her. “We should get some sleep,” he said.

_Gods._

They hadn’t fucked since their reunion and every night they lay side by side without coupling, Ygritte grew more and more distressed—more and more hurt.

_Was it something she’d done?_

She was determined to make it work—to try again. And so after taking a deep breath, Ygitte slipped to the ground beside him where she pushed her body flush against his.

Jon tensed noticeably.

She pressed her breasts firmly between his shoulder blades, and tucked one of his curls behind his ear—her nails just grazing the soft skin of his pale neck as she smoothed his hair.

She could feel his breath picking up.

Ygritte then dropped the hand, winding it around his torso and reaching in between his legs.

Jon caught her hand with a jerk and shrugged her off quickly. “Gods, Ygritte—can’t I go to sleep without having to worry about you jumping me every night?” His voice was strained and tired.

_Here we go again…_

Ygritte pushed herself angrily to her knees, a lump already forming in her throat. She swallowed bitterly, trying to rein in her devastation. “Without me jumpin' you?” Ygritte questioned heatedly. And when Jon didn’t say anything she grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, pulling him to look at her. “What? Do ya not think I’m _pretty_ anymore, Jon Snow? Is that it?” She’s meant the question to be bitingly sarcastic, and hoped he couldn’t hear the tremor in her voice.

“What?” He said with genuine surprise as he forced himself into a sitting position. “Gods, Ygritte—of course not!”

“Well then why won’t you let me touch you?” She cried tempestuously.

“I don’t—I’m afraid—”

“Afraid of what?” She pushed, exasperatedly.

“That I won’t be able to get it up—It’s not…” Jon dropped his head embarrassedly.

_What?_

“Ya never had that problem before… Before ya came back?” Ygritte said skeptically.

“I know, Ygritte. This isn’t—Just leave it alone, alright?”

“Leave it alone?” Ygritte echoed hotly. “Gods, Jon, can’t we at least try? Ya won’t even let me near you!”

“There’s nothing to try!”

“O’ course there is! I know my way around a cock, Jon Snow—especially yours. Or have ya forgotten?”

“This isn’t about you.”

“Oh, if it’s not about me, then what is it about?”

Jon grimaced harshly—an internal struggle etched clearly on his face before he growled, “This is about The Red Woman, alright! She…”

Ygritte’s breath caught as Jon fidgeted before her. “She what, Jon Snow?” She asked softly.

“She—Ygritte, I’d just woken up—and I was so weak... I couldn’t move… And she got on top of me.” His words began to spill out uninhibited. “Gods, I tried to fight her, but I wasn’t strong enough and… There was only so much I could…” Jon looked as though he might be sick as he tapped his fingers furiously against his knee. “She fucked me.” He spat, staring ashamedly into his lap and never once meeting her eyes. “And I couldn’t—I didn’t—stop her… And since then, I can’t—“ His voice hitched.

Ygritte felt nauseous rage at The Red Witch pulsing peripherally as she processed Jon’s words. Her initial emotion was, to her immediate shame, one of betrayal—possessive anger over the idea of Jon inside another woman, but she tried to push it away.

_He didn’t give anythin’ away—it was taken from him._

And as her thinking settled, her anger at Melisandre grew.

_That red whore can thank her Lord of Light she’s not still alive to face what Ygritte otherwise would have had in store for her._

They sat in silence for a few moments before Ygritte spoke. “Why didn’t ya tell me, Jon?” she croaked.

He looked up—his dark eyes swimming miserably. “It’s humiliating… I…”

“Jon Snow—“ Her lips quivered with sorrow for him. “What happened—It’s not yer fault—there ain’t no shame in it…”

“No shame in it? Ygritte—I was—I let myself be… _Raped_ …” He could barely say the word. “By a woman…”

“Jon, Gods, nobody lets themselves be raped. Ya tried to push her off? Ya told her to stop?”

He nodded miserably.

“Well if she didn’t stop, then that makes her a raper… And it—well, it don’t make you any less of a man for it…”

He softened visibly—his shoulders slumping in relief as she scooted herself closer to him.

“Or at the very least, Jon Snow, it don’t make you any less to me.” Ygritte murmured gently. “Is there anythin’ I can do? To help ya? To make it better?”

Jon shook his head and cleared his throat. “No—I don’t know… Just… C’mere.” He mustered up a warm smile and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling them both to the furs—his body spooned around hers.

_Like the first night they spent together—so long ago…_

“Let’s just sleep for now—please.” His breath stirred the loose tendrils of her hair, causing them to skitter—tickling along the arch of her long neck.

“Aye, Jon Snow.” Ygritte sighed—the weight of his confession heavy on her mind. “We’ll just sleep for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these issues are gonna be more or less "resolved" within the next chapter or two, and then it'll be a good while of fluff, smut, and adventure on the way to Meereen (because that shit's way more fun).


	42. XLII

**Ygritte:**

They moved quietly through the hamlet, leading the horses behind them as they walked and weaved their way slowly through the handful of scattered, wooden huts stretched out across the snowy plain. The shacks all appeared abandoned and the air hummed with a pervasive silence.

“Where is everyone?” Ygritte asked, turning to Jon. She ran her hand along the velvety muzzle of her horse—the animal had dipped her large head to Ygritte’s shoulder, and she could feel her hot, moist breath against her skin.

Jon shook his head. “I imagine the people living here moved on—moved south for fear of… Well…” He shrugged almost apologetically. “...Of Wildling raids. By the looks of it, they’ve been gone for awhile.”

Ygritte scanned the area.

_He’s not wrong._

Wooden beams of fences sagged and splintered, while dirty snow banks stretched the full height of front doors. Much of the boreal shrubbery appeared overgrown and thorny.

“Aye, Jon Snow, I imagine you’re right… And it don’t look like the Free Folk have made it this far yet,” Ygritte said, referencing the ongoing wildling relocation throughout The Gift.

Jon mumbled in agreement, and the two of them continued forth.

But as they neared the last of the shelters nestled among a sparse patch of forest, a door suddenly slammed open.

Jon and Ygritte both jumped in surprise, turning their heads to the older woman who stood—framed by a dilapidated doorway—with a crossbow pointing directly towards them. Her long, gray hair fell wildly around her shoulders.

Ygritte shrugged her own bow to her shoulder, pulling an arrow from her quiver and readying it against the string faster than Jon could unsheathe his sword.

A tense moment passed between the three of them. Ygritte could feel her heart pound in her ears. “I’d be careful with that, old woman," she warned threateningly through teeth clenched.

And much to Ygritte’s astonishment, as abruptly as the woman had appeared on the scene, she had lowered her crossbow. “Ygritte?” The woman called out; her worn voice harsh with shock.

_Gods!_

Ygritte’s mouth fell softly open as recognition sank in. “Norna?” From her peripheries, she noticed Jon return Longclaw tentatively to his sheath. Likewise, Ygritte dropped her bow arm and took a few steps forward. “I—“ She started in amused disbelief.

“C’mere girl,” Norna said. “Gods—it’s been years.” The woman reached out and pulled Ygritte into a tight hug. “Ygritte—I’m not sure I would ‘ave recognized you…” She ran her coarse fingers along Ygritte’s face. “But you look so much like yer Mother.”

Ygritte smiled; as equally touched, as she was flustered. “I... Thank you—Norna, this is—“ She pulled back, gesturing to Jon; waving him forward. “This is Jon.”

The woman eyed Jon with a sly grin and a twinkle in her eye. “Aye, the baby crow?”

_The baby crow…_

Ygritte shook her head, confused. “How did ya—?”

Norna chuckled, shaking her own head in a similarly bewildered fashion. “Tormund passed through—on his way to Hardhome with Mance and the others… Just a little over a fortnight ago.”

“You saw Tormund?” Her surprise at this unforeseen reunion kept growing. “Jon—“ Ygritte turned to him. “Norna is from my village—a friend of my father’s. I’ve known her me whole life.”

“Aye,” Norna nodded. “Since she was a babe.” She then clapped a hand on Jon’s shoulder invitingly, prompting a wide grin to cross Ygritte’s face at Jon’s noticeably startled jerk. “But, come in. Come in.” Norna continued. “Have some ale—warm yer bones as we talk.”

Jon cleared his throat, bowing his head respectfully. “Thank you, ma’am—I’ll just go tie up the horses.”

_“Ma’am?” Such a proper lad, her Jon Snow…_

“Right.” Ygritte nodded affectionately at him before stepping through the threshold into the hut. The inside was dusty and cramped—bathed in warm candlelight. A rickety table and some chairs stood in front of a flimsy, stone fireplace. And just behind a wooden partition (adjacent to a lumpy mattress) sat a large basin, filled with steaming water.

_A bathtub._

“Did we interrupt a bath?” Ygritte laughed. “Norna, you seem to ‘ave adjusted well to this cozy life.” She smirked, seating herself in a rough wooden chair.

Norna pulled three heavy mugs from a chest and placed them on the table with a thunk. She smiled then, filling the cups with deep, amber liquid. “Aye, those damned southroners do know a thing or two about comfort.” She sat down across from Ygritte just as Jon made his way into the cabin, stomping his snow-covered boots loudly against the doorframe before stepping inside.

With a shy smile, he sat down next to Ygritte, who squeezed his knee lovingly as she passed him a mug.

Ygritte turned again to Norna. “Have ya been here this whole time? Since you left the village, I mean?” She probed.

Norna nodded, sighing loudly. “Most of it—yes.” Her blue eyes shone sadly and she looked to Jon. “Once Darrick and Isak passed—my boys,” she clarified for him.

Ygritte interrupted. “They fell from The Wall—climbing over in one o’ Mance’s early raids…”

_She’d never forget when Tormund had broken the news all those years ago—how Norna’s face fell with silent anguish._

“Aye—so they did… And… Well, after that, I just needed to get out—to leave the north. I would be getting too old to fight soon, and I’d long run out of energy for Kings beyond The Wall and raiding missions.” Norna’s words were bitter. “So I said my goodbyes and climbed The Wall on me own.” She took a deep sip of ale.

“You climbed The Wall all by yourself—even after your sons…?” Jon asked, letting the question hang unfinished in the air.

“Aye, I wanted to see what my boys were never able to—to see the land you southron folk were always so dead set on keeping my people out of.” Her wrinkled hands curled coldly around her mug, but she gave Jon a wink to ease the hostility of her jab.

Jon mewled an awkward laugh before taking a steady gulp from his own cup.

“So how’d ya end up here?” Ygritte asked.

“Well, first I went to see the ocean—The Bay of Seals. It don’t look so much different than it did beyond The Wall—but Gods, it’s beautiful… Though like all things, I grew tired of it eventually, and I finally settled here. The village had long been abandoned and for the most part, I’ve kept to meself. I like the quiet.”

Ygritte kicked the leg of Jon’s stool gently as she laughed. “Ya sound like him—Jon likes the quiet too... Even I can barely get him ta say three words.”

Norna smiled. “A rare trait in a man.” She got up then, and refilled their mugs.

After another hearty sip, Ygritte’s fingers were beginning to buzz warmly.

“So tell me,” Norna said as she settled herself back at the table. “What brings you two all the way over here—Castle Black’s a good walk from here.”

Ygritte took a deep breath. “We left from The Nightfort half a fortnight ago…” She began. And then she told Norna of Jon’s murder, of The Watch and The Red Woman. She spoke of Jon’s resurrection, and of the prophecy. With some urging, Jon even pulled out his sword. Norna’s eyes lit up as she watched the blade’s flame dance before her. Ygritte spoke next of Benjen’s return and Bran’s visions—of Jon’s heritage and finally, of the dragons in the east. “… So now we’re off to Meereen—to find Jon’s aunt… And to play our part in the war to come,” she finished.

Night was falling, and the fire smoldering in the stone alcove had all but burnt out.

“That’s quite a tale,” Norna said after a time—her deep voice gravelly and warm. And then she stood abruptly, clearing their mugs and pulling some furs from a chest. “The least I can do is offer _the saviors of the realm_ a bed for the night—and a bath… I’m afraid the water isn’t hot anymore, but it might well be warm still.”

“Thank you, Norna” Ygritte said.

_Gods, it was good to see her—good to talk. It felt like home._

“You can go first,” Ygritte said, running her hand along Jon’s back.

He cocked a smile and wordlessly walked to the tub before raising his hands to the laces of his jerkin. He stopped then, fidgeting uncomfortably—his dark eyes looking to Norna.

Norna looked around, confused, before laughing briskly at Jon’s expense—one of her eyebrows arching mockingly. “Wha’? Are ya shy, _Your Grace?_ ” The words were heavy and sarcastic as they rolled off her tongue. “I’ve seen a cock before—And I mean no offense, boy, but nothin’ ya’ve got between yer legs is gonna knock me off my feet.”

Jon’s face flushed and he dropped his head modestly as he ran the fabric of his untucked tunic through his agitated fingers.

_Gods, she sometimes forgets what a southron greenboy he really is._

Ygritte smiled at the thought, but her face quickly fell as she recalled his time with The Red Woman—thought of what she’d done to him. So Ygritte walked quickly to Jon, pushing him gently behind the partition and shielding Norna’s view of him with her own body.

“These kneelers are so sensitive,” Ygritte said loudly to Norna with an exaggerated eye-roll, hoping to bring an end to Jon’s humiliation.

Jon undressed hastily and slipped into the water with a whimper.

“How’s it feel?” She asked.

He grimaced. “Could be colder.”

Norna walked over, handing Ygritte a washrag with a smirk before retreating across the room once again. She bent down and began to stoke the fire.

Jon pressed his knees to his chest—wrapping his taut arms protectively around them. Goosebumps covered his pale skin—their color white in contrast to the bluish of the milky water.

_Oh, Jon Snow…_

In the few days since he had opened up to her about his assault, his usual reticence had become all the more pronounced, and Ygritte could tell that the Red Woman’s touch was weighing heavy on his mind—as it did hers.

She hadn’t tried to touch him since that time—just offering light strokes of his hair or kisses to his cheek as they fell asleep together, side by side each night.

_He’d not tried anything in return._

“Can I?” she asked, holding the ball of rough material up to Jon. He nodded and she dipped the rag in the tub, wetting it before scratching it along the slope of his back.

She washed him for several minutes—the room quiet except for the slosh of water and the creak of the wooden walls. Ygritte wrung the rag out over his hair—wetting the dark locks and running her fingers lithely through his curls.

A tilted, loving smile crossed Jon’s face and he looked up to her—his eyes warm. “Thank you.” He said.

_And Gods, she could kiss him._

“Oh, don’t get used to this, Jon Snow. Ya may be royalty now, but don’t think I’m gonna start actin’ like yer handmaiden.”

Jon laughed. “Men don’t have handmaidens,” he said, correcting her on kneeler customs like he had so many times before.

Ygritte rolled her eyes, flicking her hands in the water and splashing him lightly. Her thin arms hung over the edge of the tub and she trailed her long fingers through the water.

The feel of the lukewarm liquid made her recall that cave—when they’d bathed together… When they’d laid together.

_He’d been a maid…_

Ygritte laughed fondly at the thought.

_A maid no more… But a man now—A prince…_

“A prince…” She hummed. The title still sounded so strange to her—so foreign.

_Though it was surely even stranger sounding to Jon._

Jon leaned back against the rim of the basin then, stretching his legs out underneath the water. He closed his eyes relaxingly and smirked. “Even so… I’m still a bastard.”

Ygritte laughed and dragged the rag across his chest—circling the dip of his clavicles. “Aye—still Winterfell’s sulky, bastard boy with the pretty crow lips.” She highlighted each derisive adjective with sweetly punching pronunciation, and tapped a finger teasingly on the smiling plump of his bottom lip.

He opened his eyes to her touch. But with a sly smile, she quickly returned to her task, moving down and rubbing the damp cloth along the steps of his ribs.

Jon didn’t take his eyes off her then—tonguing the side of his cheek for a moment before stilling her hand with his own. He grinned. “Your lips are prettier than mine.”

Ygritte chuckled softly. It touched her—his flirtations. And suddenly, much to her surprise, Jon reached out—grabbing a handful of her hair possessively and pulling her mouth firmly to his.

He kissed her tenderly at first, before exhaling into her—his tongue parting her lips boldly as he explored her mouth with fevered necessity. The blunt of his nose rubbed along the swell of her cheek as he leaned forward, continuing their kiss.

After a spell, Ygritte heard a rumble from the back of his throat and she cracked her eyes as he drew away.

Jon’s chest rose heavily and he let out a shaky laugh as he reclined again against the basin’s side.

Ygritte could feel the warmth of her face—the flush of her lips—and cleared her throat. Her breasts tingled through her tunic, but she sat back on her knees—stifling her arousal for his sake.

_And Gods, he didn’t usually catch her off guard like that…_

She picked up the washrag and began to trail it once more across his chest. She grazed his nipple with the cloth and continued lower—across his scars—following the tilt of his flat belly and just skimming the crest of his hipbone before she stopped.

_Oh?_

She felt _it_ —his cock. It was half-hard and hot, flopping stiffly against the crease of his thigh.

“Jon?” She whispered breathily. “Are ya—?”

He swallowed heavily as he shifted his weight in the water. “Please—don’t stop,” he rasped.

Ygritte leaned forward then, grabbing his length and tugging smoothly. In but a dozen strokes he was at full-attention.

_She could almost cry from the relief of it._

She ran her free hand along his shoulder before dropping it and thumbing his nipple teasingly as she pushed her mouth against his.

They kissed ardently and Jon wrapped his arms around her—the thin fabric of her tunic dampening in his wet hold.

Throughout their embrace, Ygritte continued to pump him—the cool of the water gliding her hand along his shaft sleekly. She circled her thumb along its head, causing him to shudder in her grasp.

Ygritte smiled then, amidst their kiss, and repeated the motion.

Jon moaned throatily and pulled back before pressing his forehead against hers. “Come in here—with me.”

She didn’t need to be asked twice, and after sparing a quick glance at Norna (who appeared almost _too_ preoccupied with some weaving), she tugged her chemise over her head, making quick work of her breeches and slipping behind the partition’s cover as she stepped into the tub.

Jon took her face in his hands and rumbled warmly as she guided his cock inside her.

_Gods, it felt good._

He filled her so obviously—so perfectly. And when she began to ride him in earnest, she couldn’t help but let out a hoarse cry herself.

Jon dropped his hands to her breasts and rested his head in the crook of her shoulder. Ygritte arched back as she moved atop him—the completeness of the moment overwhelming.

After another minute or so, Jon abruptly threw his head back as he began to shake with the telltale signs of his approaching release.

Ygritte opened her eyes to see him trembling—his mouth open and his eyes scrunched tightly together. Just then, Jon shut his mouth forcefully, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard as he whimpered roughly. The sight of him melted her heart.

_He’s gettin’ desperate—but he's tryin’ so hard to wait for her before he comes._

But she herself would need longer, and so in a moment of loving generosity, she leaned forward—grazing her teeth lightly against the pad of his earlobe.

“Go ‘head, Jon Snow. It’s alright.”

And with that, Jon shuddered—his breath hitching as he cried out huskily, spilling inside her with surprising strength. She rode him through his finish, stroking her hands gingerly along the flexed tendons of his neck.

When he was completely wrung out, Jon fell into Ygritte; engulfing her in a hug so tight she thought he might snap one of her ribs. His breathing was hot and fast against her skin.

“Well I suppose that’s one way ta take a bath,” Norna called from the table with amused acridity. “Not very clean, though.”

Ygritte laughed, tossing her head back and dipping her long hair in the water. Her top braid had come undone and she let her loose strands float on the surface before lifting up and wringing them out.

She smiled at Jon.

“You didn’t—“ he started, a look of guilt crossing his face.

“Hush, Jon Snow— _you did_ , and that’s all I care about right now.” She pecked another kiss to his mouth and pushed off of him—sighing as he slipped out of her.

Ygritte stepped from the tub, grimacing as she noticed all the water, which had splashed to the floor. She chuckled hoarsely. “Norna, we’ll fix this up in the mornin’—we’ve made a right mess of things… Though it’s mostly his fault,” she said, jerking her thumb in Jon’s direction.

The older woman laughed. “I suppose he’s ta blame for that as well?” She said, pointing to Ygritte’s stomach. The swell was only barely noticeable—the formerly sharp bones of her hip covered now in a layer of cushioning.

“Aye, he is.” She pressed a hand to her belly, reaching out and hoisting Jon from the tub before pulling her tunic over her head.

She passed Jon his shirt as well, admiring the way the muscles of his lean back twisted as he put it on—its length just covering the curve of his rear.

“Ya’ve got a pretty arse, Jon Snow—it’s a shame to cover it up,” she said, pinching his bum and walking to the pile of furs that Norna had stretched out by the fire.

***

**Jon:**

Jon lay, spooned around Ygritte on their furs before the fireplace. Norna had fallen asleep on her mattress maybe an hour ago.

The fire was dying, but its warmth remained.

Jon cupped Ygritte’s breasts and burrowed his face into her neck with a heartfelt moan. His cock was beginning to perk up again and he was feeling rather giddy for it. Just on the verge of sleep, she stirred next to him, mumbling something incoherent with a soft smile.

Aside from Ygritte’s lack of orgasm, their recent coupling had left him with such relief and confidence, that he felt as though he could conquer anything.

_Maybe he would take the throne after all…_

He laughed to himself at the thought, shaking his head at the absurdity and pulling Ygritte even closer to him. Jon dropped a hand to her belly and ran it across the slope.

_Our babe…_

Shutting his eyes, he wondered curiously what their child would look like.

_Will it have hair as dark and tangled as his or bright and wild like hers? Eyes dark brown—black? Or blue—the color of the sea surrounding Tarth? Would it look like Arya? Or Bran… Or Rickon?”_

But Jon’s stomach lurched then. Because, try as he might, he simply couldn’t picture Rickon’s face.

_He could remember the boy’s laugh, but Gods… What did he look like? What color was his hair?_

Jon sat up, rubbing a hand down his face worriedly.

Ygritte shifted on their pallet. “Mmmmm—come back, Jon Snow. ‘S cold,” she mumbled.

And so Jon appeased her, sliding back beneath the covers and wrapping her again in his arms as he sighed heavily.

She opened her eyes, turning to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing—it’s just…. Go back to sleep, I’ll tell you in the morning.”

_He didn’t want to make it a big deal…_

Ygritte rolled over, a look of concern on her face. “No—What? Tell me now.”

“It’s just…” Jon rubbed his hand down her smooth arm. “It’s the strangest thing, Ygritte… I can’t remember Rickon—or I can remember him, but I can’t seem to remember what he looks like…”

“Just now?” she asked.

“Aye—but come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve been able to since I came back… I can _see_ Robb and Sansa—I can _see_ everyone… But not him—not Rickon.” Jon shook his head sadly. “I don’t know why.” He groaned then—pushing the painful thoughts from his mind and enveloping Ygritte in another crushing hug.

_There’d be time to process that later—time for everything else later._

Jon pulled her backside flush against his pelvis and curled his hands to her stomach.

“This babe of ours—it’ll be a Prince or Princess, won’t it?” Ygritte asked then, changing the subject and smiling as she covered his hands with her own.

He chuckled. “You might be right… Does that make you a Queen?” Her hair smelled warm and clean.

Ygritte laughed in his arms and pressed her arse firmly against him. His cock twitched noticeably as she continued to work her hips, causing the pace of his breathing to pick up.

“Oh but don’t it, Jon Snow?” Ygritte asked, playfully. “Or should I say, _Jon Targaryen_?”

He felt his face fall and he propped himself up on an elbow to look clearly towards her. “Please don’t call me that.”

At first, Ygritte looked surprised by his request—almost hurt—but she quickly recovered; her expression stretching into one of the most loving beams Jon had ever been given. “No—You’ll always be _Jon Snow_ to me.”

And in that second, Jon’s heart felt so full, he thought he might explode. So he flipped her roughly around and slipped down between her legs, lifting her tunic and burying his face in her crotch.

Jon lapped and sucked—bringing her to climax twice before his cock began to throb painfully with his own desire.

He pushed inside her then—her walls tight and wet around him.

After several long minutes, Jon could feel his balls tightening, and he dropped his mouth to Ygritte’s breast—tonguing at her nipple. They came together with muffled cries and when all was said and done, he fell asleep—still inside her.


	43. XLIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly a little filler just to get things going.

**Jon:**

The crashing hiss of the waves skidding along the rocks rumbled in Jon’s ears as he stepped over the last of the frosted brush and onto the flat of the cliff’s precipice.

He looked back, extending his hand towards Ygritte and helping her over the bramble, before hurrying excitedly to the bluff’s sheer edge and looking out.

“There.” Jon said, a humble smile crossing his face as he pointed through the fog to the castle’s silhouette nestled in the sea’s distant inlet. “Eastwatch.”

From afar, it looked gray and cold nestled at the base of The Wall (the bordering structure so staggering in height, that it seemed to simply dissolve into the murk of the morning’s dreary clouds as it extended into the sky).

“Looks cozy,” Ygritte said, smirking sardonically.

They continued forth, weaving along the cliffside’s steep edge in the direction of the castle and walking in relative silence for a little over an hour.

The smell of salt hung sharply in the chill of the wet air.

But as they got closer to their destination, Jon noticed Ygritte slow her gait—she lagged behind, a curious hesitance flushing her pale face.

He stopped accordingly. “What’s wrong?”

Ygritte’s nose pinked as she answered him—her words airy with wistful curiosity. “It’s nothin’, Jon Snow—just that… Well, when we step foot on that boat, it’ll be the first time I’ve been...” She cut herself off. “You’ve never?”

Jon shook his head understandingly and pulled her into a hug—his cloak snapping in the wind around them as he held her close. “Never—Before I joined The Watch, I’d not even been outside Winterfell.”

Ygritte grunted noncommittally and pushed herself from his hold—grazing her fingers along the length of his arm and wrapping her hand around his. She tugged Jon forward, then, her boldness returning as she looked warmly to him. “I’m glad we’re doin’ this together.”

***

**Jon:**

“…And we’ll need maps—of The Shivering Sea and Essos—Just what you can spare.” Jon finished.

Cotter Pyke sat before them—his thick hands splayed out authoritatively on his wooden desk as he eyed Jon bluntly from his chair.

Jon could feel Ygritte shift next to him—her body language comforting in its confidence.

Pyke nodded slowly. “Aye, Snow—I imagine you will… And I’ve got a small keelboat I can afford—the two of you should be able to manage it on yer own.”

Upon their arrival at the castle, Jon had tried to be judicial with the information he’d shared—only covering the basics without getting into any talk of prophecies or rebirth.

_He was Benjen Stark’s bastard nephew, The Watch was crumbling, and Benjen had instructed Jon to sail to Meereen for the sake of the realm—to bring reinforcements back north. Winter, after all, was coming._

Pyke sniffed loudly before dragging a heavy hand down his ruddy face and scooting his chair roughly backwards.

He rifled through a stack of parchments and then tossed them sloppily on the desk. “Take the maps you’ll need.” He stretched a large sheet out—flattening it across the surface and pointing gruffly with dirty fingers. “By my guesses, it’ll take you ‘bout two fortnights to reach The Axe by boat… and a good few more ‘cross the Forest of Qohor and then the Dothraki Sea on foot… Benjen’s sendin’ you a long way, boy…?” he finished, a slightly prodding gleam in his dark eyes.

Jon forced a grin. “Aye—he is.” He said nothing more, and after an uncomfortably pregnant silence, Pyke spoke again, albeit a bit begrudgingly.

“Well—“ the commander grunted. “I’ll ‘ave Travis take ya to yer vessel, then.”

Jon thanked him and turned to leave, but was surprised as Ygritte spoke up—her voice firm. “Mance and Tormund—The Free Folk who passed through… They’re not back yet?”

Pyke’s face fell. “No, girl… They’re not back… I’ll be honest though, we’ve been hearing strange word from Hardhome for some time—had a few men ranging up that way and—”

“What kind of word?” Ygritte interrupted sharply.

Pyke paused, seemingly sizing up Ygritte’s fortitude. “I imagine it’s the same sort of _word_ that has you two sailing o’er to the ends o’ the earth for Benjen…” He laughed gruffly. “It’s like he says,” Pyke jutted a thumb in Jon’s direction. “Winter is coming… But I pray every night to the Drowned God that those men—them Free Folk leftover—were able to get on the boats in time.”

Ygritte’s face paled, but she nodded sturdily. “Right—thank you.” And then she held out a hand in (what to Jon’s mind was) an unusually formal gesture for her.

Pyke gave Ygritte a toothy grin before shaking her hand vigorously. But he swiftly sobered. “You two be careful.”

***

**Ygritte:**

The cured venison was tough and dry, with ridges of curdled fat clinging limply to the grayed meat. It was less than appetizing.

Ygritte huffed, throwing the slab of meat dejectedly to the table’s splintered surface and opting instead for a sip of ale. “Three days and I’m already sick of this,” she griped.

The boat rocked on the water, causing the liquid in their cups to tilt dangerously close to spilling, and Jon reached out a hand to steady his mug, offering up a lopsided grin to Ygritte as he did so. The flames of the table’s candles canted with the waves’ motion.

The boat’s cabin was cramped—its shallow space furnished with nothing more than one lumpy mattress atop a thin wooden bedframe and a small table accompanied by two rickety chairs. Several barrels of food and supplies were stacked in the corner, along with (much to Ygritte’s growing distaste) a small chamber pot. “It’s not easy crouchin’ over a pail as the boat rocks this way an’ that beneath yer feet.” She’d told Jon bitterly on the first day. He’d merely shrugged a laugh and stood to piss over the boat’s side with ease (a simple maneuver that Ygritte found herself becoming increasingly jealous of as the days went on).

_Men and their fuckin’ cocks._

Though, the first time Jon had needed a shit, she had a good laugh at his expense as he’d balanced himself unsteadily above the bucket—his britches round his ankles.

Their boat’s small deck wasn’t spacious either—allowing little room for much else beyond the thick mast protruding from the base of the cabin and the wide tiller at the stern.

The vessel’s wooden boards groaned and creaked around them. And with one final swig, Ygritte drained the last of her ale from her mug.

Jon stood then, hitting his head on the low ceiling for what must have been the hundredth time since they’d begun their journey. He let out a pained grunt and dropped tiredly to the bed.

Ygritte turned in her chair to face him. “Ya look right worn out for a man who did nothin’ more than hoist a sail today,” she teased, stretching out her leg and prodding Jon’s side with the tip of her foot.

Jon smiled softly as he pulled himself up. He crossed his legs and leaned against the cabin’s wall—the back of his head coming to rest against the wooden slats with a dull thud. “In fairness, it’s exhausting having to constantly deflect your mocking,” He quipped.

“Right, Jon Snow,” Ygritte scoffed with a grin. “I forgot ya don’t like fun.”

“I _do_.”

“Ya _don’t_.”

Jon rolled his eyes before closing them relaxingly and Ygritte took several minutes to finish her meat with slow, begrudging bites.

When she’d swallowed the last of it, she settled herself next to Jon on the bed. To her surprise, he had the uncommon hint of a smile ghosting along his plump lips. “What are you thinkin’ about that’s got you smilin’?” She asked with a blooming grin of her own.

“Smiling—was I?” Jon cocked an eyebrow and slowly opened one eye.

“Aye, Jon Snow.”

He sighed deeply. “Just—well… I was thinking about my father—er... Ned Stark...”

_Ah._

“…And all he did for me.”

“Wha’—takin’ you in?”

Jon nodded. “Aye, but it was more than that—he…” Jon faltered, struggling to form his thoughts into words. “I was angry with him at first... When Uncle Benjen told me." He huffed a scoffing laugh. "I think I'm still angry. But... It mustn't have been easy for him either. By raising me as his bastard, Ned Stark tarnished his honor and… Gods, he even lied to the woman he loved... And all of it—Ygritte, he did it for me... Because he loved my mother—loved Lyanna.”

_Aye, because he loved…_

The more Ygritte learned of Ned Stark—thought about his life and death, the more she could see the resemblances between Jon and the man who raised him.

_Noble, stubborn, and compassionate (almost to a fault)… Though Jon was havin’ to make his own way in the world now—striking his own balances between mercy and justice... Right and wrong... Honor and love…_

Jon gave her a sad smile before laughing harshly—his head shaking back and forth with an air of disbelief. His laughter was as abrupt as it was bitter.

“What?” Ygritte asked, confused by his sudden shift in demeanor.

“It’s just—I’d always wanted to be _Jon Stark_. It’s the first thing I ever remember wanting. I daydreamed my father would ask the king and just like that I would never be the bastard of Winterfell again… And I understand now why he couldn’t do it—why he didn’t do it… But it’s… Well I… I wouldn’t even be _Jon Stark_ , would I? Not now, anyway.”

The question was rhetorical, for which Ygritte was glad. She didn’t know what to say.

Jon gestured dryly to his hair, his tone indifferent despite his obvious sourness. “I’d just be silver-haired _Jon Targaryen_.”

He wasn’t moping exactly, more like working through the absurd reality of his years of suffering. His residual pain made Ygritte angry to think of all the grief he had carried his whole life over his identity—his bastardry.

_Life is hard enough, and the kneelers’ pointless roles and rules only make it harder._

Ygritte fiddled briefly with his lock of bleached hair. “Well—this’s white o’er silver, Jon Snow—reminds me o' Ghost more than anythin’.” Her eyes skirted briefly to the teeth still hung round his neck as he swallowed thickly. She circled her fingers along the swell of his bent knee. “You’re as much wolf as ya are dragon.”


	44. XLIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut city. Fluff city. Boat city.

**Jon:**

Jon exhaled in surprise—the musty smell of parchment dancing in his nostrils as a soft smile tugged at his lips. He ran his fingers thoughtfully along the date scrawled among the supply ledger’s pages. The ink had bled haphazardly into the vellum.

_If he’d counted right, then today was his name day._

Jon chuckled dryly and poured himself a facetiously celebratory mug of ale. The malt liquid warmed him considerably as it slid down his throat. He poured another.

Ygritte had fallen asleep several hours ago, and in that time, Jon had busied himself with taking stock of their rations—mapping their progress. By his estimations, they had passed from the Bay of Seals and into the waters of the Shivering Sea just a few days past.

_They still had a long journey ahead of them._

By Jon’s third cup, his head hummed pleasantly, and as he slipped behind Ygritte onto the thin mattress, Jon dropped his mouth to the graceful curve of her long neck. He inhaled deeply—groaning softly into the warmth of her skin as he shifted his hips flush against the swell of her backside.

He felt himself twitch at the sensation and squirmed closer to increase the pressure.

“Mmmmmm,” Ygritte grunted, her eyes fluttering. “I liked you better when yer cock didn’t work—ya weren’t such a nuisance.” She cracked a tired grin and rolled to her back, pulling Jon to his hands and knees above her. She worked her hand teasingly between his legs then, flattening her feet and spreading her knees widely to his sides as she did so.

Ygritte began to work him through his smallclothes, but after a couple moments, she reached up (taking his face in both hands), and rubbed a thumb along the scratch of his beard. “Why do you smell of ale, Jon Snow?” Her face wore a lopsidedly scrutinizing smile.

Jon shuddered a laugh—his breath slightly irregular from Ygritte’s ministrations. “It’s my name day.”

“What?” She laughed too.

“My name day—the day I was born.”

“Oh? And how many years ago was that, then?”

“Four-and-twenty.” The age sounded strange, even to his own ears.

“Ah—well I’ve still got ya beat.” She kissed the round of his nose playfully. “But only by a little… We don’t ‘ave name days north o’ The Wall—Are they nice?”

Jon nodded distractedly—his dark curls falling in his face with the gravity of his hovering position. He dragged his eyes across her form—the fabric of her sleep tunic thin enough that Jon had trouble focusing on anything but the way the shirt draped loosely around her perky breasts.

Ygritte knocked her knees against his sides—tonguing her cheek scandalously as he met her gaze. She scoffed at his half-lidded expression. “Well… What do people usually do for them? Is it custom to get drunk and wake a pregnant woman by ruttin’ against her, or is that just somethin’ _you_ do?”

“Um,” the decided lack of blood in his head was making it difficult to think. He smiled. “You usually get gifts and things... But I can’t say I’ve ever spent a name day in quite this fashion—to be honest, most of my name days have been pretty dismal.”

She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Ya didn’t ‘ave any good ones?” Ygritte ran her hands along the outside of his thighs—rocking him back and forth ever so slightly. His clothed erection strained uncomfortably untouched in the space between them as he tried to focus on her question.

“Er… One year my father had a sword forged for me.” Jon smoothed some tendrils of hair from Ygritte’s cheek with a sweep of his thumb. “Maybe I was six-and-ten—it’s the sword I took to The Wall… The one I used before I got Longclaw.”

“Aye—that’s good… Though I’m guessin’ that one didn’t glow like this one does?” She jerked her head in the direction of Longclaw, which rested, sheathed, in the corner.

“No,” Jon smiled. “It didn’t glow.” He dropped his mouth then, pushing his tongue between her teeth and pressing his pelvis into hers. She ground against him with similar enthusiasm.

His mind whirled headily from her touch, but he pulled back with a laugh as a different memory suddenly surfaced. “I remember another—I must have been about ten… I’d not gotten any presents, but Robb had asked Gage—Winterfell’s cook—to make a gingerbread cake for me... And Gods, we ate the whole thing in my chambers that night—just me and Robb.” Jon laughed. “I thought my belly might explode… That one… That was probably my best name day.”

Ygritte pressed her hands to his chest—moving them tenderly more so than seductively. “And what about the other ones?”

Thinking of his past had squelched some of his previous eagerness, and Jon pushed himself back on his knees before her. Ygritte sat up as well.

“They weren’t as nice by comparison...” Jon sighed. “I… well, each year on their name days, I’d always watch all my brothers and sisters get gifts—And I didn’t so much mind that… I didn’t need gifts… But I remember bein’ jealous o’ the way Lady Stark would hold them on her lap… Gods, or even the way she’d look at them—like they were the greatest things in the world—like she was so happy they’d been born... I always wanted someone to look at me like that, and on my name day I’d often think about my own mother—about what I was missing…”

Jon trailed off. The drink had loosened his tongue and he suddenly became aware of the redundancy of all his stories.

_Jon Snow: poor unloved bastard. He wasn’t treated the way his siblings were. Lady Stark was cold to him… Ygritte had heard it all before._

Jon cleared his throat with embarrassment. But Ygritte reached out comfortingly, resting a hand on his shoulder while she held his gaze—a serious expression on her face.

“Yer mother may not ’ave been around, but at least now ya know you had a mother who loved you—I bet Lyanna’d ‘ave given anythin’ to hold little Jon Snow on his name day each year.” Ygritte mused.

“I suppose you’re right,” Jon said slowly. An earnest grin stretched across his face as his heart swelled.

_Lyanna Stark… His mother._

“Ygritte—“ Jon continued. He held the palm of his burnt hand gently to her face. “Our child will be lucky—it will have a mother there who loves it … and a father who’ll… Well, he’ll try his best not to bore it with sad stories from the past.” He laughed.

Ygritte rolled her eyes and leaned up to kiss him. “Gods. You’re not _that_ boring… But you should leave the makin’ fun of you to me, Jon Snow—I’m much better at it… Now c’mere.” She grabbed a handful of his tunic in a soft fist. “How ‘bout let’s make this name day a nice one?” And as suddenly as the words had left her mouth, Ygritte pushed him on his back. Jon couldn’t help but utter out a surprised grunt.

She straddled him, yanking her tunic over her head and bending down to kiss his chest. She kissed at the couple, scattered hairs above his shirt’s neckline before huffing impatiently. “Let’s get this off, Jon Snow.”

He was happy to comply, and all the more happy when Ygritte trailed her kisses lower.

She tugged his smallclothes down to his knees and licked lightly at his cock’s tip. Then, Ygritte took him in her mouth, prompting Jon to let out a deep, rolling whine. She bobbed shallowly up and down at his crown, one hand working his length from the base.

His breath grew faster as time went on—as her touches increased in speed and intensity, but it almost stopped completely when Ygritte gave his balls a gentle squeeze—rolled them through her fingers.

_Gods!_

“I’m—“ He cried out, precautiously jerking her up by the arm and pulling her forcefully to his mouth. Ygritte kissed him roughly, sliding her slick firmly along his upright length (trapped beneath her weight) as she did so.

And that was the final push Jon needed for his orgasm to come crashing down over him. His back arched and his head thrummed poundingly as spurts of hot come splattered all over his chest.

It took a minute or so for his breathing to return to normal.

When he opened his eyes, Ygritte lay to his side, regarding him with an amusedly impressed expression—her own unfulfilled arousal still spotting her flushing cheeks.

With an exhaustedly slanted grin, Jon threw an arm around her. “Gods, for a moment there, I thought I might die… Well, a second time, anyway.”

“That good?” She laughed.

Jon nodded. “I change my answer.”

“Wha’?”

“My answer from before—Robb’s gingerbread cake was amazing, but this was better… Now let me give you your gift, Ygritte.”

“A gift? Oh, but it’s not my name day." She smiled gleefully, reclining back on the bed.

Jon smirked then, kicking off his smallclothes as he crawled over her. “You Free Folk don’t keep track—“ He kissed her breast softly. “So as far as you know, your name day could be today… I’d rather be safe than sorry.” Jon ran his hands along her hips and dropped his face to her mound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aged them up a bit (closer to Kit Harington's and Rose Leslie's ages in the beginning of the series) because the idea of Jon and Ygritte being my age (or younger) about sent me into an existential panic lol.


	45. XLV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** Very brief discussion/emotional processing of a previous rape/sexual assault.

**Jon:**

“Oomph!”

Disoriented and lying sprawled out on the cabin floor in ankle-deep water, it took Jon’s sleep-addled brain a few moments to fully register the suddenness of his waking.

_Gods, had he been thrown from the bed?_

He looked around in alarm—the cabin was filling rapidly with water as the unmistakable roar of wind and rain screamed from outside.

_A storm…_

Just then, the boat rocked with abrupt violence, sending a barrage of water rolling beneath the bottom of the warped, wooden door and down the shallow steps into the cabin.

Jon staggered to a balance on his hands and knees, wincing as he felt a sharp, throbbing pain in his side from where he’d collided with the table. Cold water flooded unpleasantly through his smallclothes, and Jon pushed himself hastily to his feet with a forceful grunt.

“Fuck! Jon!”

He crouched beneath the low ceiling and snapped his head to Ygritte, who had sat up on the bed, surveying the mayhem before her with terrified eyes.

“What do we—?” Ygritte stammered over the roar of the storm—her own interrupted sleep still fresh on her face.

To Jon’s dismay, he noticed their loose parchments and supplies floating roughly around the cabin’s standing water.

He pulled a hand down his face and sprang into action, slogging through the seawater and gathering some scattered papers. The thin fabric of his sleep tunic clung to his body uncomfortably with the briny weight of the saltwater, making his movements awkward and cumbersome. “Put these in the barrels—we can’t have anything loose!” He shouted, handing the soaking stack to Ygritte as another spray of water pushed forcefully into the berthing.

_Seven hells! When they’d fallen asleep, the sea had been calm._

He shook a waterlogged map; scanning it quickly to ensure the ink hadn’t bled too badly.

_Thank The Gods, it was still readable._

Blinking furiously, Jon tried to remember all the storm-related instructions and advice Pyke had rattled off as they’d readied for their journey. But he was soon distracted as the boat took another sharp jolt, throwing Ygritte from the bed and Jon again to his knees. Heavy rain pounded against the door, sounding like a shower of arrows.

_Fuck! The sail was still flying—catching wind!_

“Ygritte—take this!” Jon handed her the privy bucket, which had been bobbing around the water by his feet. “I need to go on deck—to take in the sail—but you… You have to start bailing us out!”

Ygritte nodded determinedly. Her pale knees (bare beneath the length of her sodden sleep shirt) were littered with goose bumps from where they peeked out of the black water. She wiped the dripping hair from her eyes and pushed herself up.

“Jon! If we’re goin’ out there—“ Ygritte yelled, pulling the top from a barrel and yanking a thick tangle of ropes urgently from the inside. “We’ll ‘ave ta tie ourselves down!” She passed the bundle to Jon, keeping the longer rope’s end for herself, and wrapping it hastily around her middle.

Jon nodded. “Right—good idea... I’ll secure them to the mast!”

Jon sloshed to the bed—the water had risen to his calves—and pulled his discarded trousers from the furs. He shucked them on hurriedly and breathed a sigh of thanks as he felt the unexpected weight of a compass settle in his pocket.

_Gods, they couldn’t have afforded to lose that compass._

He palmed the device, relieved, and threw it safely into the nearest barrel before tying his own rope around his hips.

He then opened the door to the deck, and stepped outside.

The maelstrom slammed its weight into Jon, soaking his clothes to the bone in but a matter of seconds. He stumbled, clinging to the outside molding of the cabin’s walls and edging his way to the bow.

Waves skated frenetically off the surface of the meager deck, causing Jon’s bare toes to curl instinctively as he tried to maintain his grip on the slippery wooden panels.

_Seven hells._

A large swell crashed against the boat’s side, rocking the vessel forcefully. Jon reeled, clinging to the deckhouse and staggering forth before lurching to the mast just as another strong swing of the sea came crashing down.

The sail whipped wildly in the wind and the boat creaked and hissed with every pitch.

Jon swiftly wrapped Ygritte’s lifeline around the mast, tying it snugly before securing his own.

Then, he turned his head to the stern, to see Ygritte emerge from the cabin. She teetered to the edge and flung the contents of the bucket overboard before ducking back beneath the shelter.

Jon hauled himself atop the deckhouse, steadying his weight against the mast’s yard, and climbed onto the footropes. The raindrops felt like needles as they pelted his body.

The boat jerked then—tipping so abruptly that Jon had to wrap his leg around the mast in order to stay upright. He righted himself with a pained groan.

“You alright?” Ygritte called over the wind.

“Aye!” Jon grunted back, leveling himself again in the footropes and yanking up the corner ropes of the square sail. His wet hair lashed painfully about his face in the wind.

The drenched linen was heavy, and it took Jon a fair amount of strength to hoist the fabric to the crossbeam. Nonetheless, he made quick work of his task, tying the furled sail to the yard using several partitioned gaskets cinched along the beam.

But just as Jon was slipping the final gasket around the bunched sail, a giant wave crashed over the bow and he lost his footing. Jon slipped, and only at the last second, did he manage to grab hold of the slick crossbeam, leaving him dangling precariously above the tumultuous sea.

_Fuck!_

He struggled to maintain his grip, swiping his feet along the slippery wood to try to get some support. Jon grunted loudly then, and pulled himself up, hoisting his chin above the yard and draping his body over its bar—his knees balancing bent atop the footropes.

When the boat finally stabilized itself, Jon swung his weight back atop the cabin, crawling hurriedly across its roof before dropping down in front of the door.

Jon was exhausted already—his breath coming fast—but they’d have to continue bailing out water for as long as the storm raged on.

As he moved through the doorway, Jon tripped over the privy bucket, sending him careening into the cabin. He shook his hair from his eyes. “Ygritte!” He growled, frustrated. “What are—“

_But Ygritte wasn’t there._

Jon’s stomach dropped—fear thrumming sickeningly in his throat. “Ygritte?” He whipped his head around and sprinted back on deck, looking to the mast and following the taught silhouette of her lifeline with his eyes—all the way from its tie at the base to where it dipped sharply; disappearing into the surging gray of the ocean.

_She’d fallen overboard._

Without a second thought, Jon dived in after her.

The water was cold as ice and dark enough that Jon could scarcely see beyond his hand. So he surfaced; frantically pushing his sopping hair from his eyes and swimming to Ygritte’s rope.

Jon fought through the waves and grabbed hold of her lifeline before taking a deep breath and ducking again beneath the water. He kicked out, pulling his hands along the rope and propelling himself forward.

Down. Down. And down.

And then, finally, he saw her.

Her eyes were closed and she bobbed bonelessly in the water—her red hair looking almost ethereal—stretched and floating.

_She doesn’t look conscious._

Jon hastily wrapped his arms around her and kicked his way to the surface. Her weight slowed his progress, but he held tight.

And finally, lungs straining from lack of oxygen, Jon emerged above the water. He hauled them along his lifeline and back onto the deck of their rocking boat.

Jon stretched Ygritte out on her back, putting his head to her chest to check for a heartbeat.

_Nothing._

“Fuck!” Jon cried, pushing both hands to her chest and pressing down. After several pumps, he put his mouth to Ygritte’s and forced air inside. He pushed again.

And then Ygritte coughed.

_Thank The Gods._

She heaved violently—turning over and spitting up seawater.

“Ygritte—what—Gods—Are you…?” Jon took her face in his hands. He was still trembling.

Her chest heaving (and eyes still shut with exhaustion), Ygritte shot Jon a small smirk. “Longclaw,” she choked out. “I got it.”

Jon shook his head with a lack of understanding. “I don’t—“ And suddenly he noticed—wrapped firmly around Ygritte’s hand—was his sword belt, the white wolf pommel of his sword sticking out from the attached sheath. “How did you—?” He began.

“I—it must ‘ave been loose, ‘cause I watched a wave take it overboard… And I couldn’t very well let ya go without yer sword, Jon Snow… So I jumped in after it,” she laughed tiredly.

“Gods, Ygritte…” Jon picked her up and carried her into the flooded cabin before setting her gently on the bed. He dumped Longclaw (sheath and all) in one of the storage barrels and slogged his way back to Ygritte. He stroked her face. “Don’t scare me like that again—I can get another sword, but I can’t get another one of you.”

She smiled, rolling her eyes. “And just where are ya gonna get another sword that lights up, Jon Snow?”

Jon smiled (humming noncommittally) and kissed her forehead softly—tasting the saltwater on her skin.

The berthing’s water churned around his legs, and he pulled back reluctantly. “Ygritte—I’ve got to keep bailing us out… Else we won’t make it through the night.”

“Give me a second to catch me breath, Jon—then I’ll help ya.”

“Right,” Jon nodded warmly and left to begin his task.

After several minutes, Ygritte stood to join him.

The storm raged on for hours, and throughout the night they worked—Ygritte filling the bucket with water from the cabin and passing it to Jon, who stood on the deck (pelted by driving rain and struggling to maintain his balance as the sea pitched their boat side to side) to dump the water overboard.

The storm broke just as dawn did, and it was then, with weakened relief, that Jon stumbled to the berthing’s door, sitting down on the steps and falling asleep the moment he leaned his head against the splintered wood of its threshold.

***

**Ygritte:**

“Oi—wake up, Jon Snow—drink this.” Ygritte said, waving a mug of water in front of his sleeping face. She’d boiled it free of salt about an hour ago, and it had only just now cooled enough to drink.

When Jon didn’t stir, Ygritte prodded his leg with her bare foot. He rolled over with a moan, fluttering his eyes open only to shut them again immediately. Jon quickly threw an arm over his face. “Nnghh—It’s too bright.”

Ygritte chuckled, wrenching the arm back to his side. “Aye it’s bright, Jon—the sun’s out.” She leaned over and pressed her lips lightly to his.

Jon opened his eyes then—a bemused, canted smile stretching slowly across his face, as he looked her up and down. “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

Ygritte ran her tongue across her lips flirtatiously. “Are ya complainin’?”

“Not at all.” He shook his head, smiling.

“It was just that the storm got them all salty…” She began. And true enough—she’d woken up with her shirt’s fabric clinging uncomfortably to her skin—starchy and scratchy from the drying saltwater. “…So I hung them up there.” Ygritte pointed above the deckhouse. “I’m guessin’ yer clothes are the same, Jon Snow… Give ‘em here and I’ll take care o’ it—I’m feelin’ all wifely and domestic this mornin’.” She winked, reaching out to tug at the waistband of Jon’s breeches.

He mewled, squirming in discomfort and retracting his hips from her touch. Ygritte laughed, letting go and stepping atop the cabin before walking to the rope she’d tied along the length of the mast’s yard—her tunic and bed furs draped across it to dry in the morning sun.

“Do you remember fallin’ asleep?” Ygritte called down. “Ya didn’t even make it to the bed.”

Jon smiled, untying his lifeline and pulling his tunic over his head; his hair stuck up at all angles—matted and scraggly. “Gods—I was tired.” He held his shirt bunched in his hands and looked around skeptically. “But hells, you can’t even tell there was a storm last night…”

_He was right._

The sun sparkled off the sea—its swells mild and rolling in comparison to the violence of last night. In total, they’d been on the boat for a little over a fortnight, and this morning was already shaping up to be the warmest one yet.

“Aye… I reckon we’re gettin’ closer to Essos, Jon—I don’t think I’ve ever been this hot.”

Jon nodded in agreement, unlacing his britches and stepping from their confines in a somewhat undignified manner. “Gods—Ygritte—“ Bare; he adjusted himself with a wince. “—Even my balls are covered in salt.”

Ygritte grinned down at him. “Aye, it gets _everywhere,_ don’t it, Jon Snow?” she laughed, remembering how she’d swiped salt furiously from the thatch of hair between her legs just this morning.

From below, Jon handed her his clothes and she turned to hang them on the line. “Last night was somethin’, huh?” She said casually.

Ygritte could hear Jon climbing atop the deckhouse then. He walked up behind her, dropping a kiss to her shoulder and wrapping his arms around her. “I can’t believe you jumped in for the sword,” he said—his voice quiet with seriousness.

A strong breeze blew past them—catching in the unfurled sail and causing their boat to push onward with renewed urgency.

“I can’t believe I needed yer help to get me out.” She scoffed gently—her voice seemingly relaxed. But truth be told, the incident had rattled her more than she let on, and she didn’t want to dwell on how close to death she had almost been.

_It was a foolish thing to do—goin' after Longclaw._

Her swimming skills were rudimentary even in the calmest of conditions. After all, there weren't many chances north of The Wall to get decent practice moving through water... And what little swimming she could do was mostly a result of learning from fooling around in hot springs and freezing lakes in her youth.

_...But in that moment, she just couldn't let Jon lose that white wolf pommel... He'd already lost so much..._

Jon lowered his hands, rubbing his thumb along the pout of her stomach—just brushing against her navel. He hummed in her ear. “I’m just glad you’re alright—is all.”

Ygritte shifted in his hold—turning to face him and throwing her arms around his neck. She pressed her naked body against his, kissing him firmly, and breaking away only as she felt Jon’s cock respond keenly to her touch.

“Later, Jon Snow.” Ygritte smirked at his resigned sigh. “Right now… I’m gonna catch us some dinner.” She smiled and strutted to the end of the deckhouse, before jumping to the boat’s lower level.

Ygritte pulled her bow and quiver from the cabin’s storage, and picked out a thin rope, synching it snugly around an arrow's shaft. She then seated herself on deck—peering out over the boat's side and settling back against the deckhouse’s walls. Jon soon dropped down next to her.

“I don’t think you’ll find any deer out here,” Jon quipped warmly.

“I’m not goin’ after deer—Gods, if I wanted to eat deer, I’d ‘ave more o’ that horrid venison we’ve got in the cabin… I’m goin’ ta catch a fish.”

“Surely then, you’d use a fishing pole?”

Ygritte laughed then, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You know nothin’, Jon Snow.”

They sat for a time in silence—Jon running his fingers lightly along the slope of her legs as she laid her head against his shoulder—sacrificing her view of the sea’s waters. The clouds moved, blocking the sun’s rays mercifully as the morning stretched into afternoon.

“Jon?”

“Mmm?” Jon opened his eyes and pulled his head from its rest against the wall.

“What did it—what did dyin’ feel like?” Ygritte asked, her own recent brush with death stirring in the back of her mind.

He sat himself up straighter; stretching his legs out along the short deck—his feet just barely grazing the flat of the stern’s railing. “Ummm… I don’t… I don’t really remember—it was mostly quiet.”

“Were you scared?”

Jon thought for a moment before shaking his head slowly. “No… I was sad at first—lonely. And then I was just alone… Though I didn’t feel one way or another about it… It was like it was just… Well, it was just happening is all… And then…”

“And then…?”

“And then everything went black—there wasn’t anything… Er—not until I woke up anyway.”

Ygritte ran a hand through his tangled hair—each curl thick with crusted salt.

“Ygritte—I’ve been meaning to… I wanted—“ Jon faltered, his voice catching as he bounced his knees anxiously.

“What is it?”

“Just—thank you… For listening to me with—well about The Red Woman and…” Jon stumbled over his words and ran a fidgeting hand along his beard. “… For trusting me.”

_Oh, Jon Snow…_

Ygritte had thought a fair amount about Jon’s brief description of his rape, and about her own emotions regarding the situation. There was a part of her (a part she wasn’t proud of) that worried he might have underplayed his role in his account…

_Or that maybe some part of him had even wanted The Red Witch…_

But Ygritte knew that line of thinking wasn’t fair—that it only represented insecurities that lived inside her (more or less extensions of her muddled, fearful feelings about their relationship from so long ago; from just after Jon had tried to leave her by that windmill). It had taken awhile to fully regain her trust in him then… But she had, and they’d grown so much since that time—done so much together.

_He loved her and she loved him..._

“You’d ‘ave done the same for me, Jon Snow,” Ygritte cooed sincerely.

Jon smiled warmly—exhaling with relief just as a splash sounded from the boat’s side.

“Fuck!” Ygritte cried excitedly, jumping up and running the few short steps to the stern. “Jon! What are they?” Several large, gray animals surrounded the boat. She counted five fins and shouldered her bow warily.

Jon laughed. “Ygritte—it’s alright… I think they’re dolphins!”

“Dolphins?”

“Aye—Theon would talk about ‘em… They jump and—look!”

All of the sudden, a dolphin leapt from the sea, twisting in the air with a high-pitched cry and splashing loudly back down.

“Gods, they’re beautiful!” Ygritte said, mesmerized.

He laughed again, pointing. “They’re fishing.”

And sure enough, Ygritte could see it—a huge mass of writhing fish swimming furiously as the dolphins chirped and darted around them. She watched, moved by the collective sheen of fish scales—purple and milky as they caught the light.

Ygritte notched an arrow and lined up a shot.

“Ygritte—“ Jon said her name warningly. “What are you—?“

But she let loose then, ignoring Jon and successfully skewering a fish. Ygritte yipped excitedly and pulled the rope back to the boat before tugging the arrow from the fish’s eye—throwing her catch to Jon with a smirk. “Told ya I’d get us dinner.”


	46. XLVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1AM and mostly just fooling around/avoiding real-life responsibilities with this stuff.
> 
> *Also (mildly) concerned about the degree to which Kit H's and Rose L's "official" relationship is boosting my mood. Good times to be a Jon/Ygritte shipper. <3

**Ygritte:**

“Gods, Jon—it’s…”

_But she didn’t have the words._

The water of the inlet was turquoise and transparent—beautiful. And leaning over the edge, Ygritte could see straight down to the bottom, where small yellow fish flitted among the seabed’s rocks and weeds.

They’d spotted land only just this morning, and the excitement blooming in Ygritte’s belly was thickening with every passing moment.

Even from a distance, the land seemed foreign. With green waters rimmed by sand so white that at first, she thought it must be snow. For the most part, the coastline was craggy; thick gray rocks pooled around the shore giving way to bleached beaches and eventually to sparse thickets of scraggly trees amidst sprawling fields of dry grasses.

_She’d never seen anythin’ like it._

As the boat moved through the cove, a thin film of sweat had gathered on her forehead—plastering tendrils of her fraying braid to the sticky sheen of her skin. Ygritte swiped them away with the back of her hand and turned to Jon. “I can’t believe we’re finally gettin’ off this bloody boat,” she laughed.

He picked up the mooring rope and gave Ygritte a small smirk—nodding in agreement. “Aye—it’s strange.” His eyes held that glazed, far-off look Jon sometimes got when he was stuck in his own thoughts.

She walked to him then, with a bounce in her step and a swing of her hips, and pressed her palms flat against his chest. She gave him a brief kiss. In return, Jon hummed, smoothing her hair with the palm of his hand before dropping a kiss of his own to the top of her head.

Suddenly, the boat shuddered—stalling as it ground against the shore’s sandy floor. Standing together, the couple’s stance faltered, and after a few balancing steps, Ygritte wiggled her eyebrows, giving Jon a wide, excitable grin.

He smiled back and sidestepped, moving to the boat’s edge and dropping over the side with his typical masculine grace.

Jon hit the shallow water with a small splash; the waves lapping at his knees as he extended a helping hand to Ygritte, who took it eagerly.

Upon landing, she ran clumsily through the water, and dropped to the dry beach with a relieved yip. Ygritte raked her fingers through the sand, intrigued by its fine texture, and hurriedly unlaced her boots to bury her pale toes beneath it. “Jon! It’s so warm—It’s…!”

Wrapping the rope securely round a sharp crag, Jon laughed in answer before trudging through the water to lie down beside her.

Ygritte closed her eyes gently, taking his hand in hers as the sun beat down against her face. They lay there for a few minutes, breathing softly and listening to the steady sounds of breaking waves and crying gulls.

“Jon?”

“Hmm?”

“Do my ankles look fat to you?”

Jon cracked his eyes open with a look of amused bemusement. “What?”

Ygritte wiggled her feet (slightly swollen from the pregnancy) back and forth before them. “My ankles—do they look fat?”

“Um—yes…” His brow knitted. “A bit,” he added hastily.

“A bit?” Ygritte had half expected him to dramatically dismiss any notion she might be unsightly, and was both surprisingly entertained and annoyed by his relatively honest answer. She hooted a laugh and shoved his shoulder roughly. “Gods, ya’ve not got a dishonest bone in yer body, Jon Snow…”

“Well what did you want me to say?” Jon’s face fell into a look of completely humored confusion.

“Ya could ‘ave at least pretended they still looked nice—it’s yer fault they look like this!” She was still smiling, in spite of her irritation.

“I don’t—Gods, Ygritte, of course they still look nice—they're beautiful!”

She rolled her eyes and smirked with teasing sheepishness as she clicked her heels together. “Hmm—well now I’ve ‘ad it both ways, I think I liked it better when ya just told me they were fat… You sound too sappy otherwise.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Only _a bit._ ” She winked. “But, you best be careful—the rounder I get, the more I’m gonna start holdin’ it against ya...” She dropped a hand to her stomach.

Jon snorted a shaky laugh, propping himself up to cover her hand with his own—eliciting a warm smile from Ygritte. But she quickly threw an elbow into his side, pushing him off and standing to her feet.

In a flash, she pulled her shirt over her head and dropped her britches. Ygritte couldn’t help but laugh then, at the way Jon’s eyes widened—his mouth dropping open with pleasant marvel.

“Last one in the water’s a grumkin, Jon Snow!” And with that, Ygritte turned and ran, hitting the water at a sprint just moments later, and jumping headfirst into the waves.

The water was calm and comfortably cool as salt filtered through her mouth. Beneath its surface, she opened her eyes, blinking as they adjusted to the coarse ache of the salt. She swam deeper then—bubbles escaping her mouth in excited ringlets with each of her shimmying kicks.

Eventually, Ygritte surfaced to find Jon, stripped and wading towards her. She paddled in his direction, closing the distance between them in a few awkward strokes before dipping again beneath the water.

The sun shafted through the water's surface—the filtered light marbling along Jon's torso and highlighting the mottled scars across his belly and chest. She wrapped her legs around his waist, laughing as his body jerked in surprise, and breached.

Rubbing salt from her eyes, she met Jon’s warm grin.

“Get on my back—“ He said, shaking his head at her clumsy movements and laughing. “I’ll swim us round. It’s what I used to do with Arya—in Winterfell’s hot springs."

Ygritte rolled her eyes at his prudence, but agreed regardless; fondling his genitals teasingly before maneuvering herself—her arms slinging around his neck from behind. “Alright—onward, Jon Snow.”

They swam together for a time, splashing and chasing each other as they moved amongst the waves. Eventually, Ygritte slipped from Jon’s side to climb atop a large rock. From its height, she jumped to the water again and again—loving the way her stomach dropped in the few seconds of free-fall before she’d hit the sea. Jon was always waiting for her at the bottom—making sure she'd resurface safely.

_...The memory of her near drowning but a fortnight ago no doubt fresh in his mind._

For a while, she insisted Jon report on the size of her splashes, laughing loudly when she soaked him with a particularly explosive entry. Jon jumped from the rock once or twice himself, but in general preferred to float on his back—his arms stretched wide to his sides and a contented smile on his lips as the water skimmed over his body.

After one final jump, Ygritte swam to Jon, skating her hands along his ribs as he floated. His eyes opened at her touch and he righted himself in the water—putting a hand to her face and pressing his lips lovingly to hers, canting his jaw and sliding his tongue between her teeth.

“You’re beautiful,” he hummed. “…I don’t care if it’s sappy to say so.”

Moved by his words, a smile blossomed on Ygritte’s face. “No, Jon Snow, I s’pose I don’t care much either.”

Jon kissed her again and dropped a hand between her thighs—the other resting on her breast, kneading it gently. Her arousal flowered silkily in her belly as Jon rubbed the flat of his palm against her pubic bone—grinding in small, quickening circles before dipping one finger (and then another) inside her. She reached out, grabbing his cock where it bobbed upright in the water, and began to pump her fist up and down. Jon’s breathing quickened in response, his kisses becoming increasingly jarred and sloppy as she worked.

Despite the water’s chill, his skin was hot in her hand as she pulled it along his length—twisting and stroking—thumbing his slit with each move’s culmination. But her hold quickly slackened to a loose grip as Jon increased his own ministrations—driving Ygritte to a heady, shivering climax in but a matter of minutes. She gasped throatily, throwing her head back and submerging the ends of her hair in the water.

But still not sated, Ygritte gave Jon’s shaft a few more tugs before directing him inside her; sighing in gratification at the way he stretched her walls—the way he fit so snugly. He held their entwined weight as they moved together in the water; their kisses fresh and exciting—their thrusts impassioned, purposeful, and shared. And within several minutes, the feel of Jon’s warm release was just enough to push Ygritte over her edge a second time.

Her heart hammering in her chest and her pulse thrumming dimly between her legs, Ygritte settled herself astride Jon’s bent thigh (propped up to support her weight). She pushed his damp hair to the side, its curls straightened from the weight of the water, and rested her head against the crook of his neck.

“I think I’m goin’ to like Essos, Jon Snow,” Ygritte mused contentedly. And Jon crooned in agreement as she snuggled closer, stroking his neck and pecking a tender kiss to the lone freckle adorning his shoulder.

***

**Jon:**

Ygritte snored softly to his side—stretched out naked on their furs in the bristled brown grass. Jon couldn’t help but smile as he looked at her, tracing the graceful curves of her collarbones with his eyes. Her pale skin looked silver in the starlight.

She stirred slightly as Jon stood, tugging on his britches and walking to the precipice of a crag overlooking the sandy cove.

He sat down, breathing deeply as he dangled his legs from the rocky ledge. Salt hung heavy in the air and Jon’s curls rustled gently in the warm breeze—brushing ticklingly against the curves of his bare shoulders. The moonlight reflected off the water in flickering streaks of pearly white as the waves lapped steadily on the shore.

And sitting there—at the edge of the world, Jon felt he understood the sea’s pull. In the same way he (a northerner despite all Ygritte’s insistencies that he was in fact, southron) would always be drawn to the snows of the Godswoods, he imagined seamen never truly felt at home when they couldn’t taste the ocean’s salt and brine on their tongue.

Jon’s gut wrenched suddenly, as his thoughts flashed to a young Theon Greyjoy—to the boy taken from his island home and dropped mercilessly in a cold, landlocked castle surrounded by the people his father had been fighting just fortnights before.

But these thoughts quickly transformed into broken images of Theon shivering in Winterfell’s cells—soiled and whimpering, repentant and desperate.

_Not Theon—Reek…_

The picture was too painful, so Jon swallowed thickly, shutting his eyes tighter as he tried to conjure up something—anything—to remind him of the handsome, cocky youth whom he had grown up alongside—whom Theon Greyjoy had been before the world swallowed him up as it had Ned and Robb and Catelyn.

Jon tumbled back in time, grabbing hold of a distant memory.

He stood in Winterfell’s courtyard at five-and-ten, battering away at a practice dummy as he so oft did on the evenings when Winterfell’s Great Hall was otherwise preoccupied—bustling with members of one important house or another.

In the darkness, the torchlight licked against the training yard’s walls, illuminating the grounds as Jon channeled his energy into focused hits and thrusts. With each thwack, dust flurried frenziedly from the burlap dummy.

Jon was startled suddenly by a wispy, high voice from behind. “Your swordsmanship is quite impressive.”

He wheeled around—facing a girl about his age, her eyes sparkling mirthfully. Jon recognized her from the morning—when the Manderly family had entered through Winterfell’s gates, their merman sigils flying proudly.

_It had been almost impossible to miss the girl’s gaudy green braids._

“Erm…” Jon shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Thank you, m’lady. You—“

The girl took several steps closer, closing the distance between herself and Jon. “My name is Wylla.”

Jon nodded, running his tongue along his lips anxiously. “Hello, Wylla—I’m Jon… Er... Snow.” Despite the many times he’d announced his surname, Jon’s face still burned with each reveal.

Wylla smiled, nodding. “I know.” She reached out, trailing her pale fingers along the length of his arm.

Jon fidgeted, mewling uncomfortably and speaking with haste. “Forgive me, m’lady, but shouldn’t you have an escort?”

“You can escort me if you like.” The girl raised an eyebrow.

“I—It would be improper… For a bastard to…” Jon trailed off—his heart rate increasing as Wylla cocked her head with almost teasing disappointment; her slight breasts plumping salaciously from the top of her dress’s bodice.

“No one would have to know,” she said. But Wylla soon dropped her head, grinning softly and accepting defeat as Jon shook his head—his stance firm and rigid.

“I’m sorry, m’lady… But... I’m sure my brother would be happy to—“ Jon began.

Wylla laughed softly, a hint of sadness in her voice. “If I’d wanted your brother as an escort, I’d have asked him… But ah well.” The girl leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Jon’s cheek. “Take care, Jon Snow.” And with that, she walked away.

Wincing with awkward discomfort, Jon dragged a hand down his face and turned again to the dummy. He sheathed his sword despairingly and tried to ignore the throbbing in his groin.

_Gods, could he have made a bigger fool of himself?_

“Snow, you keep going at this rate and you’ll be a virgin forever.”

_Seven hells._

Theon sauntered over, a clear witness to the brief exchange that had just occurred. He threw his head back, drinking deeply from a wineskin and wiping the red juice from his chin with a dry smile.

Jon huffed moodily. “Men of The Night’s Watch, we take no—“

Theon scoffed, rolling his eyes. “— _Take no wives_ —Yes, yes, I've heard it before. But you’re not in The Night’s Watch yet, Snow… Besides, surely a romp with that Manderly girl would feel better than easing _that_ with nothing but your hand.” Theon gestured amusedly to the bulge, prominent between Jon’s legs.

Jon blushed, covering his erection with an embarrassed hand and staring daggers at Theon. “Leave me alone, Greyjoy.”

“Alright,” Theon laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Anyway, I’m going to the brothel now.” He hesitated, his eyes gleaming as he spoke again. “You could come with me if you like? I’m sure there’s a girl there who’d be happy to suck your cock… For a small price.”

“You’re disgusting." Jon spat, his voice thick with tired malice.

Theon shrugged—seemingly indifferent to Jon’s slight. “Suit yourself…” He began to walk away, but turned at the last minute—a look of genuine care on his face. “Maybe one day, when you stop being afraid of it, you can learn to enjoy it... And for your sake, Snow, I hope that day comes _before_ you pledge yourself to that pathetic, celibate brotherhood... And not after.”

Jon went quiet for a moment. “I—I’m not afraid of it…” He said, finally—his teeth clenched.

“Right—and that’s why you turned away the pretty noble girl with the busty teats…” Theon barbed sarcastically. “Well anyway... Unlike that girl, the brothel will still be around tomorrow night… In case you change your mind. And in the meantime… Enjoy your hand, Snow.” Theon wiggled his fingers teasingly and winked before spinning on his heels and strutting away, the sound of his laughter fading as he walked from the courtyard.

Sitting by the beach now, Jon’s throat felt full with emotion. The memory of his childhood feuds now so seemingly pointless. And although at the time, Theon’s vanity and jabs had driven Jon mad, looking back, he realized with further clarity that then, Theon was nothing more than just a boy—equally as out of place as Jon, and equally as lonely and insecure.

He dropped his face to his hands and knuckled his dry eyes as the waves crashed in the distance. Jon wondered, in another life, what Theon would have been like as a man grown. 

_Gods, Ygritte and Theon would probably have gotten on—they were both so exceptionally good at taking the piss from Jon._

Jon laughed at the thought and spun round to view her, sleeping soundly on their furs.

He pushed himself up then, and slipped in behind her, wrapping her body in his arms and drifting to sleep with thoughts of Theon Greyjoy and Winterfell stirring sadly in his mind.


	47. XLVII

**Jon:**

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Jon asked, caught off guard by the rarity of Ygritte’s vocalized appreciation. He was lagging behind, and Ygritte turned to face him, a smile on her lips.

She was quite the vision—the red of her hair caught luminescing in the morning sunlight, its color so like the copper sands beneath their feet.

“For carryin’ our packs, Jon Snow.” Ygritte said, cocking her head as though the answer were obvious. As she stood there, her thin tunic rustled in the breeze, pulling tautly and revealing her stomach’s slightly rounded shape beneath its flowing fabric. It occurred to Jon in the moment that the signs of her budding pregnancy would be almost unnoticeable if not for their presence in contrast to the rest of Ygritte’s bony frame.

She walked towards him and placed her hands on his hips.

Pliant to her touch, Jon canted a smile as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. And then dropping his hands, he swirled his thumbs along the growing swell of her belly, humming warmly. “Well… You’re carrying our child—toting our things is the least I can do.”

Jon kissed her forehead before she stepped away, grinning widely as she continued forth. He shrugged the pack tighter around his shoulders (jostling the bundled furs and supplies on his back) and followed suit.

Jon’s mouth was dry with thirst, but he dared not reach for their water skins—not yet. In the few days since they’d begun their trek through the desert hills, water had been scarce; only available in small pools pocketed sporadically amidst the arid shrubs and sandstone stacks. And more than once, he’d found himself missing The North’s abundant snows, and the ease with which one could melt them down for sustenance.

_But aching thirst or not, Jon couldn’t deny that the foreignness of the landscape was stunning._

Iron-rich sands blanketed the desert floor beneath the layers of stratified rock, which carved through the dusky landscape. These rugged hills rolled on for miles, and in the beginning, Ygritte had marveled over how much the scenery resembled that of The Frostfang Mountains (though perhaps just a bit more “flat… and red”).

But by the time morning had given way to afternoon, Jon and Ygritte had both had enough of the heat. With a strained groan, Jon dropped the pack from his shoulders and pulled his tunic roughly over his head.

“Seven hells,” he panted, bending over and stuffing his shirt into their bags. “It’s so hot.” He rolled up the legs of his breeches, bunching them around his knees.

As he straightened, Jon saw Ygritte had reached a similar state of undress.

She laughed tiredly, wiping a hand along her brow. “Aye, Jon Snow, I think I’m meltin’… I’ve never been warmer in me whole life.”

Jon ran his tongue along his cracked lips as he dragged his eyes over her bare torso. His head swam at the way her breasts hung from her chest, capped perfectly by two rosy pink nipples.

_Well… Maybe this heat isn’t all bad…._

He stepped towards her then, taking her breasts gently in his hands.

“Gods, Jon—its too hot for that,” Ygritte chided, knocking him away with irritation.

A brief look of wounded disappointment crossed Jon’s face before he laughed softly. “I can’t help it—your teats are just…” He reached out a second time. But before he could make contact, Ygritte blocked his arm.

“Oi!” She cried angrily—eyes flashing. And suddenly, she shot out her hand, gripping one of his nipples between her thumb and forefinger and twisting harshly.

“Ow—Gods!” Jon hissed, pulling back in pain as Ygritte laughed. And more surprised at the nature of her volatile outburst than anything else, Jon stood, eyeing her—his mouth fallen open in amused shock as he rubbed his chest tenderly. “What was that for?”

Still laughing, Ygritte folded her arms across her chest. “I told ya not to touch me. It’s too hot.”

“Seven hells.” Jon inspected his chest. “Gods, Ygritte—that’s seriously painful.”

Unmoved by his complaints, Ygritte frowned in mock sympathy. “Aw.”

“It’s gone all red,” Jon whined, stretching the skin flat so she could see. He couldn’t help the smile tugging on his lips.

_Gods, but he could never help laughing at himself with her around, no matter how much he’d like to properly sulk…_

“You’ll be fine, Jon Snow.” Ygritte laughed, rolling her eyes before sobering. “But don’t touch me again… Or I’ll ‘ave a go at yer other one.”

***

**Ygritte:**

“Gods… This heated wasteland will be the death of me.” Ygritte groaned, shielding her eyes from the sun’s rays as beads of sweat rolled down her forehead.

Jon nodded, his brow knitted in misery. “The Stark words certainly seem strange here,” he said dryly.

“Aye, Jon Snow, they do—Oh, but at this rate I’d be glad if winter would just fuckin’ hurry up and come.” She plopped down dejectedly in the sand and put her head in her palms.

Jon rustled with his pack and walked over, handing her a skin of water. “Here—have something to drink, Ygritte.”

“We shouldn’t save it?”

Jon shook his head. “You can have my share—I’m not thirsty.” He smiled unconvincingly.

Ygritte pulled the skin to her lips, hesitating before she drank. “Alright—but you can ‘ave mine next round—I won’t ‘ave you dyin’ o’ thirst on my account, Jon Snow.”

“Deal.”

She drank deeply. And when she’d had her fill, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up to Jon.

Standing there before her in nothing but his boots and black breeches, Ygritte couldn’t help but pause to relish in the sight of him. His body was taut and lean—hard and glistening from the heat. She felt a subsequent stirring in her loins.

_But gods, it’s too fuckin’ hot for that…_

“Thank you, Jon Snow,” she said, returning the water with a warm smile.

All of the sudden, she heard a stirring from a patch of nearby bramble and Ygritte sprang to her feet, settling her bow into firing position with lightning speed.

And as quickly as the sound had appeared, a pale orange fox emerged from the brush, trotting swiftly through the sand.

Ygritte almost released her arrow (excited by the thought of something other than dried venison for dinner), but she faltered upon noticing the small kit dangling from the fox’s mouth—its eyes barely opened.

_A mother and its babe…_

“Fuck’s sake,” she muttered under her breath as she lowered her bow. Ygritte groaned in frustration and dropped again to the sand, rubbing her hands unconsciously along the curve of her belly.

_Gods, when did she get so sensitive?_

But truth be told, it had been awhile back—around the time when a certain mopey crow came careening into her life.

_Aye, lovin’ someone makes ya vulnerable._

And certainly, her sensitivities and general vulnerability had increased as her degree of independence had lessened—as Jon’s and her lives became more and more fundamentally intertwined. And this reality was now only further heightened by the growing physicality of her pregnancy.

But it was more than that too, because Ygritte was also changing as a person; on top of her growing capacity for compassion (something Jon had initially stirred in her), she was becoming less and less emotionally guarded, and ultimately stronger for it. Life had given and taken so much in the past several moons, and slowly, Ygritte was learning to take each day for what it was with as much bravery of feeling as she could muster.

_And she wasn’t the only one growing—Jon had changed too._

No longer was he the self-pitying, humorless boy she’d first met—so focused on his stubborn honor, that he could barely stand to stop and enjoy a single moment. Sure, today, Jon still possessed the same brooding intensities and seriousness from his past, but in many ways, he was more softened and relaxed—by Ygritte’s side, Jon had grown in his self-confidence and comfort. And it now took more than the mere mention of the word ‘cock’ to bring a blush to his cheeks.

_Though not too much more…_

But at the same time, Jon had also hardened with maturity—as his losses piled up by way of life’s cruel injustices and indifference. And then there was the coldness of his death. Jon had been killed—murdered—for his diplomacy and inherent goodness. And he’d come back exhausted, afraid and angry. Ygritte could see it on his face when he thought she wasn’t looking… the way his mouth tightened and his eyes darkened—the way he held her tightly at night, as though if he let go, he might lose her to the darkness.

Shaking her head from her thoughts, Ygritte looked up at Jon, squinting as the sunlight hit her eyes. She picked up a handful of sand and tossed it loosely at his feet, pulling his attention to her. “I love you, Jon Snow.”

_Jon Snow—her man… and the world’s promised prince..._

A warm smile crossed his face. “I love you too, Ygritte.”

***

**Jon:**

When night fell, they stretched their furs out at the base of one of the many sandstone structures. The temperature had dropped dramatically and Jon and Ygritte had both redressed in their previous layers.

Jon stood several paces away, making his water—surprised (and a bit unnerved) at the cloudy amber color of his urine.

“Hurry up, Jon Snow. I’m cold.” Ygritte called from a distance.

Jon laughed, tucking himself back into his breeches before returning to their pallet. He dropped to his knees and scooted in behind Ygritte, who lay trembling in her cloak.

“Gods, Jon… I hate the desert—one second I’m burnin’ alive and the next I’m freezin’ me fuckin’ arse off.” Ygritte reached back and grabbed hold of Jon’s arms, wrapping them tightly around her for warmth. “Makes me miss The North—it may be cold, but at least it’s always that way… It’s no wonder we’ve not seen a single bloody person since we got here—this place is unlivable.”

Jon smiled softly, burying his face in her neck. “Some people might say the same about the land beyond The Wall, Ygritte.”

She scoffed. “Aye, Jon Snow, some _Southroners_.” And though he couldn't see it, Jon could tell she rolled her eyes.

He laughed. “What do you miss most about The North?”

“What do I miss most?” She thought for a moment. “I miss the smell of snow—how it’s all fresh and cold like… I miss seein’ my breath dancin’ in clouds about me face… And I miss Tormund—gods, he’s an animal, but I miss him all the same… What do you miss?”

Jon sighed. “I suppose I miss most that it’s home—I miss feeling like I’m where I belong.”

He could feel Ygritte nod in his hold. “Aye, me too, Jon Snow.”

They lay in silence then, and after a time, Ygritte drifted off to sleep in his arms. Jon could feel the steady rise and fall of her circadian breathing.

His mind wandered and he wondered curiously if the Old Gods could see them from so far away— a bastard and a wildling curled up on some furs in a land so foreign and distant. He wondered if Bran could see them. And shutting his eyes, Jon thought of his brother.

The little boy he had left behind in Winterfell wouldn’t be so little anymore. Jon tried to imagine it—his brother’s hair longer, his face thinner and more serious. But he couldn’t—not really. Benjen’s account of his time with Bran had only surfaced more questions than it had answered, and Jon’s musings grew muddled rather quickly.

But still, despite his confusion, one truth remained.

_Bran was still alive._

And for that, Jon was grateful. He hoped he would see his brother again.

_One day… When all this was over…_

And then, for the first time in his recent memory, Jon prayed.

He couldn’t say if he prayed to The Old Gods or to Bran himself—to a faceless emptiness or to something else entirely unknown. But he prayed nonetheless.

_It didn’t matter to whom, really._

He prayed for Bran, for Ygritte and their child, for his sisters and Rickon (whose face Jon still couldn’t conjure up despite many instances of trying), and for the people of Westeros. And finally, just as sleep was taking him, Jon prayed for strength and honor—for goodness.

_Because gods, he’d need it for all that was to come._


	48. XLVIII

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte sat, perched on a small boulder as Jon knelt behind her in the sand, gently running his hands across the reddened skin of her sunburned back.

“Gods,” Jon laughed. “You look like a tomato.” Her skin was bright pink beneath his fingers; dappled with peeling flecks of film that stretched all the way from her shoulders to the base of her spine. The burn had set in a few days back, but her prolonged exposure to the sun had only worsened it with time.

Ygritte smirked, twisting around to shoot him an _almost_ amused glare. “Just keep peelin’, Jon Snow.”

_Gods, it itches almost as much as it burns._

Jon chuckled under his breath; “Yes, ma’am.” He set about his work, shedding much of the dead skin with ease and stopping only after his pulling of a particularly stubborn strip elicited a jump and an angry hiss from Ygritte. “Sorry,” he winced. “Ygritte, I hate to say this—Gods, and with how much I’ve been seeing of these lately…” he hummed flirtingly, snaking a hand around her body and taking the plump of her breast in the curve of his palm. “…I really do hate to say it—but I think you should keep your tunic on from here out—“ He dropped his hand with a reluctant sigh. “…Else the sun will just keep making it worse.”

_Fuck’s sake—he’s right… but Gods, it’s just so hot._

Ygritte huffed, pushing herself up from the rock and stomping to their pack before pulling her shirt roughly from its depths. “As if it weren’t bad enough already: to be trudgin’ through this Godsforsaken desert on swollen ankles… Now I ‘ave ta go and burn up—lookin’ like the leaves of the fuckin’ Godswood.” She pulled the tunic bitterly over her head, a flash of jealousy surging at Jon, who stood bare-chested before her. “And look at you! You’re fine!” she gestured with an angry hand.

_It's so unfair._

And true enough; over the course of the past few days, Jon’s skin had only barely pinked.

Jon stood up, sighing and shrugging concededly. “I’m not as fair as you are, Ygritte,” he laughed, walking over. “Have you ever had it this bad before?” He trailed his fingers gingerly along her shoulder.

“Wha’—the burnin’?” She shook her head. “There weren’t exactly many occasions in The North where I was walkin’ around with me top off, Jon Snow,” Ygritte laughed, rolling her bottom lip teasingly in her teeth—the magnitude of her crankiness dissipating at his touch almost as quickly as it had flared up in the first place.

“No.” He smiled; stepping away and pulling his hair back, knotting it into a bun with a thin piece of twine. “I s’pose there won’t have been… You alright to keep moving?”

She nodded, and they walked for a time in silence before Ygritte spoke again. “When I was young, my face would oft get burnt o’er the course of a day’s walkin’… And my father—at night he’d put ice on my cheeks to soothe the pain… Told me that bein’ kissed by fire sometimes meant bein’ kissed by sun too… Said my mother ‘ad it the same.” Ygritte flashed back, remembering her father’s face—the way the corners of his blue eyes crinkled when he laughed and the rumble of his voice. She grew quiet as Jon took her hand wordlessly in his.

Jon and Ygritte wove their way through the crags of the sandstone hills, their steps guided by the sloping curves of natural-made ravines and arches. After several hours of walking, the rock structures began to dip and hallow; eventually giving way to smooth, flat sands. As they continued forth, tufts of vibrant green grasses started to appear, and Ygritte could soon hear the sound of trickling water.

“Jon—listen!” She ran forth, over the swell of a slight dune. And from the new vantage point, she saw a small stream winding before her.

Ygritte hustled, kicking off her boots and stepping into the shallow creek—its water only a couple inches deep at most. She stretched out on her back, clothes and all.

The water was pleasantly cool; soaking through her tunic and soothing her damaged skin.

Ygritte saw Jon round the hill—his look of searching concern melting quickly into one of warm ease. He crouched at the water’s edge, drinking deeply before settling down and watching her quietly. 

Ygritte hummed contentedly and closed her eyes.

The stream’s current was slow and steady; the rocks of the riverbed smooth and worn beneath her body. She couldn’t say how long she lay there, but by the time she opened her eyes again, Jon had set up their furs beneath the meager shade of a nearby tree—its leafy branches thin and twisting.

“C’mere and join me!” Ygritte called over. “The water feels good.”

Jon offered up a canted smile, moving towards her with little hesitation before shucking off his boots and dropping his britches.

At the sight of him, Ygritte laughed loudly in surprise.

_Gods, for bein’ soft, he looks a good deal larger than he has done before._

Brow furrowing, Jon’s expression contorted into the amusedly surly look he so often developed in apprehension of his being teased. “What?” he asked—his tone gruff despite the reserved smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Did your cock get bigger, Jon Snow?”

Jon bowed his head, looking for himself before letting out a small laugh. “No—I don’t think so… I—“ he cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s just bloody hot, Ygritte.” He stepped into the water.

“Oh… Right…” She laughed again. “I s’pose here, yer balls aren’t always havin’ ta crawl back inside yer belly for warmth.”

“Mmm—something like that,” he mumbled, grinning dryly as she reached forth, grabbing his hand and pulling him down next to her.

Sitting upright—legs outstretched—the water level barely grazed the tops of their thighs. So Ygritte soon lay back, guiding Jon along with her. She spread her arms wide then, dragging them through the water and sending small swells skating over their stomachs in slow waves.

The sun arched its way across the afternoon sky as they bathed, lounged, and drank their fill. And for the first time in almost a fortnight, Ygritte didn’t feel thirsty.

“Do you know where we are, Jon Snow—On the maps, I mean?” Ygritte asked later, stopping to ring out her waterlogged clothes as she walked to their furs.

Jon rummaged in their packs and pulled out a large sheet of parchment. He flattened it on the ground, smoothing the creases. “I think we’re about here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the map.

Ygritte crouched next to him, resting her hand on his shoulder—the fabric of his sage green tunic soft beneath her fingers. “Wha’ and them triangly bits are those hills we’ve been walkin’ through?”

“Aye.”

“What’s it say?” She pointed to the scripted letters.

“It says _Hills of Norvos_ —I reckon we’re just about on their edge—it shouldn’t be too long before we hit the Forest of Qohor,” he said. “Just here.” He tapped his finger on some more written words, surrounded by a cluster of drawn trees.

“And Meereen—it’s over here?” Ygritte dragged her pointer finger east across the map to a place just at the tip of a large gulf, remembering its location from a time when Jon had showed her weeks ago.

Jon nodded. “That’s right—just at the end of Slaver’s Bay.”

“And we’ll know it when we see it—d’ya think?”

He nodded again. “There’s a large pyramid at the city’s center—it’s supposed to be even taller than The Wall… I can’t imagine we’ll miss it.”

“How do you know that—about the pyramid?”

He hesitated at the question. “I—I studied these things—as a boy back in Winterfell.”

“Right,” she laughed. “I forgot they train all you Lordlings like little scholars.”

Jon smiled. “Well… I don’t think I’d have made a very good scholar—I was never as serious about my studies as Robb… I liked the histories though—and the poetry.”

“Jon Snow, _not_ serious about somethin’—I never thought I’d live ta hear o’ it.” Ygritte laughed, running a hand through his damp hair. “And what else d’ya know about Essos? What about its people?”

“Um… It depends—It’s not just one kind of people in Essos, Ygritte… I mean, even North of The Wall, you had all types—Hornfoots and Giants, Thenns and the Ice-River Clans…”

“Aye… So we did, Jon Snow…” she nodded slowly, the true size of the continent beneath her feet just now beginning to settle in. “…And this place is much bigger than The North…” Her eyes darted to the top left-hand corner of the world map, across the Narrow Sea and upwards to where a small white patch of land rested above the thin line Jon had pointed out earlier as The Wall. The map made her feel small, and she swallowed thickly.

“But I do know some things,” Jon spoke, energized as though he feared she’d think him completely unknowledgeable. “The Dothraki—they live here, in the middle—“ he pointed.

“And we’ll be crossin’ through there?” The area was vast and stretching—its size unnerving to Ygritte even on paper.

“Aye—but we’ll have to be careful… The Dothraki—they’re fierce warriors, and it’s said they learn to ride a horse before they even learn to walk… Though they’re mostly savages—roaming around and taking what they need.”

Ygritte rolled her eyes, pulling teasingly on the collar of his tunic. “Aye—that’s what you lot said about us Free Folk too.”

Jon smiled softly, a hint of embarrassed regret in his eyes. He didn’t respond.

“What else, Jon Snow?” she prodded gently.

“Erm—well here’s Volantis—It’s the oldest of all the Free Cities…” Jon went on like this, describing many cities and places in what little detail he could remember. He talked of Braavos and its Titan—of Pentos and its princes. Jon talked of many different religions and races, and Ygritte found it all as equally fascinating as it was frightening.

“And wha’ about the people in Meereen?” She asked finally. “What’re they like?”

“Meereen is run by old slaving families, and it still has one of the largest slave populations in the world—or at least it did… I’m not sure how things have changed since my aunt took over.”

“An entire city full o’ slaves?” Ygritte could barely stomach the idea. “Gods, Jon… That’s horrible.”

He nodded, grimacing.

“Why don’t they… Why don’t they fight back?”

Jon shook his head. “I think all the fight has been taken out of them,” he said sadly.

_He must be right…_

“Gods… A life like that… One without freedom—that’s no life at all,” she said—her voice cold.

Jon murmured in agreement and pushed Ygritte’s hair tenderly to one side, kissing her cheek before wrapping up the maps and scrolls and packing them away.

The night’s chill was just beginning to settle, and Ygritte wrapped her arms around herself—shivering slightly. Noticing, Jon turned to start a fire, and when that was finished, he unpacked their rations—handing a chunk of dried meat to Ygritte with a comforting smile.

_He always gave her the bigger piece._

They ate their venison over little conversation—listening instead to the crackle of the fire and the chirping of the bugs. And by the time the sun had fully set, they were both comfortably full and ready for bed.

***

**Jon:**

Jon stoked the fire as Ygritte snuggled beneath their furs, rolling over and patting the empty space beside her invitingly—though like always with her, the gesture was as equally an invitation as it was a demand.

_He didn’t mind._

Jon smirked, standing from the fire and scooting quickly within their pallet’s warmth. With a laughing grunt, he rolled on top of Ygritte, balancing his weight on his elbows and taking her face lightly in both his hands. She gave him a wide grin—her teeth flashing as her nose crinkled endearingly.

“Kiss me, Jon Snow.”

He stared warmly into her eyes before shutting his own and happily obliging her request. Ygritte’s lips were soft against his, and even amidst the kiss, he couldn’t help but grin faintly at the way his nose rubbed against the perfect swell of her cheek.

_And gods, she’s been lying in mud all day but she still smells like she always does—fresh and wild all at the same time._

Their kiss deepened as Ygritte pushed her tongue into his mouth. And Jon accepted the pace’s shift eagerly; sliding his hands down her long neck—stroking lovingly. The muscles in his chest began to tighten, and he canted his hips into hers, humming from the back of his throat at the sensation of pressure.

After a couple minutes, Jon tilted his chin, dropping kisses to her collarbones, and slipping a hand beneath the hem of her tunic. He ground his hips against her core and gripped her sides urgently—her skin soft and supple in his hands.

“Ouch!”

Abruptly relaxing his hold, Jon lifted his head worriedly. “What?”

“It’s just—this fuckin’ burn, Jon—ya’ve to be gentler.”

“Oh.” He looked down, wincing at the stark contrast between the pink of her skin and the white of her tunic. “I will be,” he said, nodding and licking his lips before falling back to his knees.

Smiling, he shimmied her breeches down and placed a gentle kiss just below her navel. But his kisses soon travelled south, and after several teasing licks of her inner thigh, Jon took the heat of her vulva in his mouth.

He swirled his tongue around her nub, pulling it tenderly between his lips and sucking indulgently. Ygritte shuddered against the treatment, arcing her back as the stimulation grew in its intensity. But Jon’s focus eventually diverted, and he dipped his tongue inside her—kissing and pulsing with tender care as she dragged her fingers through his hair. The scrape of her nails on his scalp sent shivers down his spine.

_And gods—the taste of her…_

Ultimately he moved his attention back to her bud, stroking and flicking his tongue with renewed concentration. Soon, her body began to quiver tellingly, and then suddenly, Ygritte cried out—the hoarse gravel of her voice rolling through her howl as she writhed beneath him. Her trembles lasted for a fair time, and only after she stilled, did Jon lift his head—lips shiny from his ministrations; pulled taut into a cocky grin.

By this time, Jon’s britches had grown uncomfortably tight, so he bent forth again—taking Ygritte’s mouth within his. As they kissed, Jon shoved a hand inside his smallclothes, wrapping his fingers urgently around his cock and tugging firmly. His heart pulsed at the touch, and he quickly unlaced his placket, pulling his throbbing member from its confines and lining it up with Ygritte’s entrance.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice strained.

Eyes half-lidded, Ygritte nodded enthusiastically, reaching around and grasping his manhood before guiding him inside her. Jon loved the way her breath caught as he pushed deeper—the wet of her hold sending a shudder through his core.

And supporting his weight with his hands splayed on the furs beside Ygritte’s ears, Jon began to rock his hips slowly back and forth. Ygritte sighed breathily as he increased his pace, but her sounds soon changed in tone.

“Fuck—Jon—stop!”

He stilled inside her. “Sorry! Gods—“ he panted. “Are you alright?”

“My back—“ she grunted, pained. “These burns are—let’s just switch, Jon Snow.”

Jon nodded, his eyebrows knitted with focus as he pulled out and rolled onto his back. Ygritte shifted to her knees and straddled his hips—taking his cock in hand and then lowering atop its length.

Breathing heavily, Ygritte then began to ride him decadently. She rolled her hips, running her hands through Jon’s hair as she circled back and forth—small cries escaping her lips with each beat.

Arousal climbed its way heatedly through Jon’s belly—gnawing at his throat and pulsing in his temples. And when Ygritte suddenly slammed down, the forceful change in rhythm was enough for Jon’s mouth to fall open—his back arching against the furs and his thighs beginning to tremble.

Ygritte slid her hands beneath his shirt then, tracing the flat of his nipples with her thumbs as she pressed down firmly—using his chest as leverage against the movement of her hips. In time, Ygritte’s thrusts increased in speed, sending Jon’s eyes rolling back into his skull as he panted heavily—trying to hold out.

But he didn’t have to hold for much longer, as it only took a matter of seconds for Ygritte to climax, clenching around Jon and sending him spilling heartily inside her with a hefty grunt. She ground loosely atop him—wringing out the last of their pleasure together.

It took a minute or so for Jon’s heart rate to return to normal, but eventually, Ygritte shimmied to his side—wrapping her arms around his chest as she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

“Jon Snow…”

“Mmm?”

“Do you ever think about what it’d ‘ave been like—if you’d left me by that pond?”

Jon’s face flushed with the intensity of the question, but he answered honestly. “Sometimes.”

She nodded. “And?”

He scoffed, turning to drape an arm around her shoulders. “I would have missed you every second of every day… I wasn’t meant to stay at Castle Black,” Jon said with conviction. “…And I expect I’d have been pretty miserable.”

She kissed his cheek. “I’d ‘ave missed you too—but I’m not sure ya’d ‘ave lived long enough to be miserable, Jon Snow… Oh, ‘cause if you’d truly left, I’d ‘ave had yer fun bits hangin’ round me neck and an arrow in yer heart long before you could even make it back to that castle.”

Jon laughed. “You may be right.”

“I’m always right,” she quipped, nipping at his nose and resting her head against his chest.

_He didn’t mind._


	49. XLIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When all you can do is listen to Nick Drake and write Jon Snow smut/fluff (smuff?)... Ya'll, this gets so absurd, so quick. I need a fucking chaperone or something. lol buckle in/I'm sorry.

**Jon:**

Only the low undercurrent of bird whistles and insect hums tempered the weight of the forest’s otherwise dense silence. A thick fog hung in the air—enveloping the gnarled trunks of twisting trees and their branches in a pervasive bluish haze. Jon’s shirt clung to his skin—sticky with the humidity, and he brushed his dampened, unruly curls from his eyes with mild irritation.

Unlike in the north, the forest floor wasn’t a frozen carpet of dead leaves and dirt, but instead the ground was littered with vibrant grass shoots and thick, clustered boulders. A lush coat of moss covered everything in sight, making the rocks slippery and unforgiving.

“Jon Snow?”

“Mmm?”

“’Ave ya thought about wha’ ya want to name our babe?”

The question caught him off guard and he hesitated before speaking. “Don’t you Free Folk normally wait a few years before deciding?”

Smiling, Ygritte sighed. “Aye, we do… But nothin’ about _this_ —” she gestured around her “—is normal—don’t you want our babe to ‘ave a name?”

“Aye…” Jon smiled warmly.

“So…?” She prodded.

“Well… Shouldn’t you decide? It’s in your belly,” he said. Jon’s answer was in keeping with his usual feelings of generosity and vicarious guilt when it came to all things pregnancy-related, but it also managed to simultaneously relieve him of any creative responsibility, (creativity not quite being Jon’s strong suit).

Ygritte rolled her eyes (undoubtedly picking up on the subtlety of his ulterior motives), but she couldn’t quite manage to stifle her loving grin. “You know nothin’… We’re doin’ this together, Jon Snow—you do at least get some say in its name.”

Jon and Ygritte had entered the forest several days back, and Ygritte’s mood had improved considerably. No longer brutalized by the sun’s dry heat (or by the searing burn on her skin), her heightened proclivity for bursting into angry fits during their long trek through the desert had largely diminished.

For his part, Jon was well relieved.

“So what ‘ave ya got? Give us a name,” Ygritte demanded, knocking some hanging moss from their path with a wave of her hand.

“Er… _Ygritte_?”

“ _Ygritte_?” She barked a laugh. “All the names in the world, and that’s the only one ya can think of? Are you thick?” Of course, good mood or not, Ygritte yet carried on with her merciless japes, but they were once again mostly playful in their nature. And like always, Jon would endure the teasing up to a point, smiling reluctantly as he moved along beside her; for even in the midst of his being mocked, Jon still held a quiet grace about him—maintained the reserved and steady strength that so defined him.

“It’s a good name,” he chuckled stubbornly.

“Gods, and what if it’s a boy, Jon?”

“Then we can call it _Jon_.” He smirked jocosely, joining quickly in Ygritte’s play with relaxed excitement and matching cheek. Ygritte rolled her eyes and Jon huffed a flustered laugh. “Well… I don’t know, Ygritte—what were your parents' names?”

“Me father was _Filip_ and me mother was _Hedda_ … But we’re not namin’ it after them… And I can’t imagine you’re wantin’ to call it _Rhaegar the Small_.”

Jon’s smile faltered as he shook his head. “No…”

She reached out, taking him gently by the shoulder as her tone turned serious. “This child will be ours, Jon Snow, and I want its name to be its own—somethin’ that we decide together—somethin’ from the world it’s comin’ into and not from all the sorrow o' those who came before... I want it to be somethin’ we can hope for, Jon Snow.”

Jon pulled her into a hug and dropped a light kiss to her forehead. He nodded his assent wordlessly.

They continued then for a good time, weaving over mossy boulders and around skinny trees. Every once in awhile, one of them would offer up a name for consideration, but they didn’t get much farther in their thinking before coming to a stop at the base of a large tree—warped and enormous, its branches towering wildly above them. The trunk was black and thick all the way up—with broad branches jutting evenly from its side like rungs of a monstrous ladder.

“Gods, but it’s massive… I’ve never even seen a Weirwood that’s that big,” Ygritte said breathlessly.

Jon nodded—his mouth hanging slightly agape.

Ygritte hit Jon on the shoulder, jarring him from his awe with a toothy grin. “Ya want ta climb it?”

“Climb it?”

“Aye—we could race to the top… Unless ya don’t think you can take me?” She smiled wryly.

Jon tongued the inside of his cheek before nodding.

Eventually, Ygritte always managed to stir up a ruffled competitiveness within him—effectively breaking his usual reticence and forcing him to engage in her displays. Though win or lose, Jon’s mood never truly soured like it did after his youthful losses in Winterfell’s training yard so long ago—with Ygritte, even after a defeat, Jon never felt like a loser for long. And truth be told, it often made him just as happy (if not more so) to watch her win, even when it was at his own expense.

“Alright—but Ygritte, if you get hurt, I—“

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’m not goin’t get hurt, Jon Snow.”

“OK…” Jon shook his head at her obstinence and took a deep breath. “Ready then?”

Her eyes sparkled excitedly. “Go!”

Jon stepped forth and took a short hop, lithely springing himself upwards. He grabbed hold of a thick, low hanging branch and pulled his weight up rather effortlessly, balancing flat on his hands before swinging his legs round. And though its mass was too wide to fully see around, Jon could hear the scrapes of Ygritte’s boots on the other side of the sturdy trunk.

Looking up through the generous tangle of stratified branches, Jon quickly assessed a course of direction before reaching out and pulling himself again higher. He moved with graceful agility—barely breaking a sweat as he scrambled higher; as the leaves thickened and the branches thinned.

Thick, purpled sap clung to his palm and he paused to wipe it on his breeches. Looking down, Jon peered through the hanging mosses to see Ygritte, a good several feet below—her hair frizzy and her face flushed. “How’s it going down there?” He called, smiling.

Ygritte bared her teeth angrily before her face melted into a laugh. “Don’t get cocky, Jon Snow!”

He laughed and resumed his climbing, throwing hand over hand and following the twists of the tree’s growth.

Eventually, he emerged above the canopy’s tree line. And after checking Ygritte’s progress from below, Jon steadied his footing and leaned back against the trunk, stopping to soak in the sight.

His breath caught as a light wind tugged at his curls, the forest stretching green and wide beneath him—spanning out to the horizon’s edge no matter which direction Jon turned his head.

Ygritte finally joined him—her breathing slightly more labored than his. “Fuck—this is high up,” she gasped.

And then they stood there—at the top of the forest and the height of adrenaline—in silence for a while, taking it all in before ultimately making their way back down the tree’s trunk—their pace much more cautious and relaxed on the descent. Jon dropped to the ground first, holding out his hand to help Ygritte to the rocks beside him.

“So are you going to congratulate me?” He smirked.

“For wha’?” Ygritte stepped back.

“For winning our race…” Jon raised his brows with warmed antagonism. “…You know—for getting there first.” His voice rolled smooth and low as his grin stretched arrogantly.

Ygritte scoffed, flicking her tongue along her bottom lip in a gesture of irritated amusement; her face stealing into a grin. “Well alright—congratulations then… For finishin’ before me…” Unsurprisingly, the tone of her praise did not radiate genuine sentiment. “Hmm…” she rumbled discontentedly then, fidgeting with the hem of her tunic before rolling her eyes slyly. “Oh, well you’re always right good at _finishin’_ first, Jon Snow, aren’t you?”

“What?”

She laughed at his befuddled expression and took him by the shoulders, before dropping her face into the brooding glare she so oft used in her mimicry of him. And next, so as to make clear the meaning of her prior slight, Ygritte shut her eyes and pulsed her hips into his just a couple times before crying out and slumping boneless against him.

Jon’s cheeks reddened as he caught her weight, his mouth fallen open in amused surprise as he coughed out a laugh in spite of himself. “Oh it’s like that, then, is it?”

“Aye—it is.” She straightened up in his arms. “Ya come like a greenboy every time,” Ygritte chuckled, offering a deceivingly innocent smile and pecking a light kiss to his cheek before turning to leave his hold.

But Jon grabbed her arm and spun her back—pulling her roughly against him. “I don’t always finish first.” His eyes narrowed with indignation.

“Ya do.”

And then, in a burst of moody, flirting aggression, Jon crashed his lips against hers, forcing his tongue hungrily into her mouth as though to prove a point. Barring an initial moment of shock, Ygritte adapted quickly—allowing his tongue’s movements and vying eagerly in return. They sparred for control as Jon dropped his hands to her hips and pushed her back against the tree, thrusting his pelvis flush against hers.

He rolled his hips; breath hitching as his cock twitched responsively, beginning to swell.

_Gods be damned—he won’t spill before her this time._

So he quickly canted away, falling to his knees and tugging her britches down as he went. He pulled them from her feet (along with her boots) and pressed sloppy kisses to the swell of her belly, the crest of her hipbones and the crease of her thighs—before taking her heat in his mouth. Jon sucked and licked, stopping only when Ygritte took a firm hold of his hair and pulled him back.

He looked up—his Adam’s apple bobbing; plump lips pink and wet, and pulled into a wary smile.

“Jon Snow…” Ygritte’s breath was strained. “It don’t count if the only reason you’re not spillin’ is ‘cause I’m not touchin’ ya.”

Jon jerked his hair from her grasp and drove back between her legs, lapping indulgently before picking up his pace. He waited until he felt her legs begin to tremble before pulling back again.

“Jon—“

“I know this doesn’t count.” He hummed, his voice deep and husky with its staunch air of authority. “I’m only just getting started.” And with that, he returned to his task, bringing her to a tense, shivering puddle beneath the strokes of his tongue, and quickly driving her over the cusp of an orgasm that had her sliding limply to the ground.

Just the sight of her sent heat swarming thick in Jon's belly—his cock straining rigidly between his legs as he crawled over to where she lay on her back, her red hair splayed wildly. His heart raced at the base of his throat, and he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself as he inwardly cursed his body’s sensitivity.

_Gods, maybe he really was a fuckin’ greenboy—she's really not even touched him yet._

The grass was soft beneath Jon's hands as he lowered his mouth to the curve of Ygritte’s neck, sucking urgently and making Ygritte moan beneath him. She arched her back then, reaching for his crotch and unlacing his britches nimbly before sliding her hand around his throbbing erection. Jon shuddered responsively, falling back to his knees as Ygritte bent forward to lick at his slit. She flicked her tongue several times, and then took his crown fully in her mouth, beginning to suck gently around him.

Jon’s eyelashes fluttered as he choked back a groan, and Ygritte quickly pulled off at the sound—her lips pulled into a smile he could feel resting at his tip.

But, following a wet stripe of her tongue along his shaft that almost had him spurting right then and there, Jon put an end to Ygritte's oral attentions, pushing her back to the ground and running his hands along her torso as he pulled her tunic hastily over her head.

His own tunic quickly followed.

Next, Jon leaned forward, taking her mouth again within his own as he shoved his britches to his knees. He took hold of his length, lining himself up with Ygritte’s entrance, and pushed inside her.

_Oh Gods…_

The slick pressure was overwhelming, and Jon had to still himself—his arms trembling slightly before beginning to pump in and out. Finding a rhythm, Jon tongued at the lines of her collarbone.

The tension in his groin swelled so wonderfully, climbing into his chest and heating his cheeks as he thrust inside her.

_Gods, she always feels so good._

Ygritte began to mewl with his pulses, and just as Jon was approaching his irreversible edge, he pulled out with a determined (though slightly reluctant) groan—his chest heaving and his eyes shut tightly as he took a moment to calm himself.

_Old Nan in the bathtub… Old Nan in the bathtub…_

Jon called up the image, mentally reciting the mantra he had used as a boy whenever an unwanted erection sprang up during an inopportune moment.

But just as he started to settle, Ygritte moved forward with a growl, pushing him in turn onto his back. She grabbed his cock, swirling her thumb around his glans and beginning to pump up and down—spreading the collected moisture down his shaft with a twist of her wrist. Jon grunted as the pleasurable burst of an approaching orgasm bloomed threateningly once more in his stomach.

_He wouldn’t… Uh… He w-wouldn’t sp-spill first!_

Jon reached out abruptly, pushing her shoulders away insistently. “Wait!”

Ygritte cackled breathlessly, continuing to jerk him with merciless speed. “I told ya, you couldn’t—“

But in a last minute effort of resistence, Jon interrupted her words, taking her breasts in his hands and squeezing tenderly as he shifted his thighs—blocking his cock and rubbing his shin bone against her mound in one swift move. In response, Ygritte quickly lurched back—holding his legs still and lining herself up before slamming down on his length with surprising force. Jon cried out gruffly, and hurriedly stuffed a knuckle in his mouth; biting down hard as he strained to maintain control.

He could hear Ygritte laugh then—a sound he usually so enjoyed, but one that in the moment, only drove him mad, fueling the competitiveness that began this absurdity in the first place. His self-concept of masculinity and sexual prowess at stake, Jon was dead set on lasting as long as he possibly could.

_Even if it killed him... And Gods, at this rate, it just might!_

So then, with a new wave of determination, Jon grunted, sitting up to meet her and driving his cock heatedly from below. Ygritte’s mouth fell open in pleasured surprise as he snapped his hips to hers—supporting her with a sturdy hand resting at the small of her back. He increased his speed.

_Oh fuck, he was getting close again. Fuck, oh—Seven hells—_

“Fuck—Jon…” Ygritte gasped in time with his thrusts. “Are ya—are ya tryin’ ta put a—oh—put a second baby up there?”

Jon strained a laugh, laying her down in one fluid motion as he placed a hand between her legs and thrust in again.

He could feel the heat of his cock plunging rhythmically inside her—the violent tremors beginning to shake the muscles of his thighs. So he circled the heel of his palm faster against her nub—grinding it purposefully as he felt Ygritte angle to his touch. And moments later, she was crying out—the hoarse roll of her throat thundering salaciously in Jon’s ears.

Before he could spill, Jon pulled out again, dropping his mouth to her vulva—breathing her in and sucking her through her climax as she writhed to a still beneath him. 

Jon could feel his heart thumping in his temples, and he shuffled back on his knees before her.

After a few seconds, Ygritte propped herself weakly on her elbows. “Are ya—Gods—ya’ve still not finished?” She panted, a look of impressed incredulity on her flushed face as she righted herself.

Eyes still shut tightly, Jon grunted in response, shaking his head quickly back and forth and biting his bottom lip hard enough that he began to taste blood.

_Breathe…_

“Fuck’s sake,” she laughed exhaustedly. “Alright—ya win! I take it back… You’re a proper lover, not some greenboy, Jon Snow… I was only—fuck…” She sighed shakily. “I was only takin’ the piss. Just fuckin’ come already.”

Jon let out a relieved laugh, but shook his head again as he opened his eyes. His body had calmed (albeit only slightly). “I can keep going.”

She scoffed loudly. “Right—well I can’t! Here—“ Ygritte got to her feet, pulling him quickly to a staggering stand before dropping back to her knees in front of him. She rolled her eyes at the ridiculous state of his jutting member—leaking and red with a heartbeat practically all its own. “Gods, you’re stubborn,” she muttered.

Ygritte then pulled his breeches all the way down—pooling them at his feet, before taking him in her mouth. And it only took about three sucks and one gentle roll of his balls in her hand before Jon gave in, his vision whiting out as his orgasm began to rip through him—stronger than any he’d ever had in his life. As the pleasure crashed down over him, Ygritte kept her mouth on Jon's shaft—milking his bliss fervently until suddenly, her lips were gone.

And just as abruptly as her touch had left, Jon felt the calloused grip of several new sets of hands take him roughly by the arms, pulling him from behind. He snapped his eyes open, horrified as Ygritte began to scream.

His head throbbed—his cock sputtering to a finish as his eyes adjusted to the scene before him: two burly men laughing; dragging Ygritte down the rocks as two other men hauled him backwards.

His stomach dropped in nauseating fear. “Ygritte!” Jon called frantically—struggling in the grasps of his captors, his britches still round his ankles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise at some point, they'll return to doing real "Prince of the World" shit.


	50. L

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** Attempted rape/sexual assault.

**Jon:**

Jon spat dirt from his mouth as he pushed himself up from the grass where he’d been thrown—his arms still trembling from his orgasm’s aftershocks; fearful adrenaline surging through his blood.

Ygritte was yelling, but picking his head up, Jon couldn’t see her—he could only hear a chorus of muffled laughter drowning out her calls.

The two men behind Jon moved in closer. “We’d ‘ave taken you sooner, boy… But first we wanted to see what the girl could do,” one of them sneered, his accent rolling and foreign to Jon’s ears—his voice crude. He stepped over Jon then, pulling out a thick knife and tapping its point teasingly with a finger as he flashed it back and forth. “…And we thought we’d give you one good come before you said your goodbyes to this world...” The man laughed loudly—exposing a line of browned, crooked teeth as he shrugged his shoulders in a false gesture of generosity. “So no hard feelings?”

Jon gritted his teeth and shimmied back into his breeches—eyeing the men before him with cold malice. Their skin was pale like his—their clothes ratty and their hair short and matted.

_These men were no Dothraki—sellswords or bandits mayhaps?_

“Leave her—“ Jon started.

But suddenly, the sound of a slap accompanied by another one of Ygritte’s furious screams echoed from the trees. And without a second thought—anger pulsing around the edges of his vision—Jon snapped to a crouch and rocketed forward with surprising speed.

His head collided with the first bandit’s gut—the force knocking them both to the ground with an angry grunt; Jon falling sprawled out over the man’s chest. But Jon righted himself hastily, and cocking his elbow back, he propelled his fist straight into the man’s face. He could hear a bone crack—feel the warmth of blood ooze between his fisted fingers.

Jon shifted to his knees, pinning the bandit who struggled beneath him. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the gleam of a knife.

Jon rolled off the bandit quickly—dodging the man’s rapid strike and barreling furiously onto his feet. Once standing, Jon growled and drew back his leg before kicking out, catching the man hard in the jaw and sending his head lolling backwards unnaturally. 

Jon didn’t stop there. He rushed forward again, stomping heavily on the bandit’s hand, effectively loosening the man’s weak grip on the blade. Jon ground the heel of his boot and kicked the knife bitterly away.

But right as he’d done so, the second bandit rushed him—swinging his own blade widely. Jon jumped back just in time—ducking the blow and turning to climb atop the surrounding rocks, scrambling back towards the base of the large tree.

When he’d reached his destination, Jon dove, grabbing hold of his sheath (discarded previously alongside his tunic and the rest of Ygritte’s clothing) and pulling Longclaw quickly from its confines.

The blade’s fire surged to life and Jon’s heart beat violently in his chest, his anger palpable. His thoughts weren’t coherent—all he felt was fury.

The man before him staggered back at the sight before steadying his stance with determination, the other bandit meanwhile crawling moaning through the grass—his shattered nose dripping blood.

Jon didn’t hesitate another moment before leaping off the tree roots with a feral snarl. He hurtled powerfully through the air, his shoulder slamming into his opponent’s with the force of his landing. The man barely hit the ground before Jon had shoved his sword through his heart.

By now, the other bandit in sight had returned to his feet—spitting blood and brandishing his blade in his uninjured hand.

Jon straightened up, shaking the blood from his fiery sword and taking steady steps forward. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of him.

Without pause, Jon yelled angrily, cleaving his blade swiftly through the air where it met little resistance from the bandit’s small sword. The momentum kept Longclaw’s force driving, and when the blade pushed forth, making contact with skin, Jon could smell the man’s flesh searing heatedly. He twisted his wrists then, pulling the Valyrian sword’s edge across the man’s neck in one smooth, cutting stroke.

The bandit died with a small cry on his lips; blood spurting from his neck as his pulse shuddered to a stop.

With a grunt, Jon kicked the man’s body away and stilled himself—listening for the direction of Ygritte’s calls. He couldn’t hear noises anymore and his stomach lurched—his throat dry.

_No…_

Jon clambered again up the rocks, but saw nothing. His breathing was coming faster and panic was beginning to set in—overtaking the heat of his rage.

“Ygritte!”

And then he heard another scream—a man’s scream.

Jon hopped down, hurriedly rounding another mass of boulders. And it was only then, that he saw them.

Ygritte was on all fours, her naked skin pale in contrast to the vibrant greens of the grass beneath her. One man held her back foot, pulling it by the heel as Ygritte struggled to crawl away from him through a stream of steady, angered whimpers.

The last bandit was on his knees by her head, blood spilling down the side of his face and a hand clutching at his ear.

Jon’s vision blurred as he raced urgently down the rocks, and the next thing he knew, he was crashing into the assailant by Ygritte’s feet. He jerked the man back with a gruff hold, throwing him to the ground and thrusting his sword through the man’s face—pinning his skull to the forest floor through the gaping hole of the man’s stretched, bloodied mouth.

Jon wheeled around then, just as Ygritte scrambled through the grass, picking up a discarded rough sword and pulling herself to her feet. She approached the final bandit with fast, determined steps.

“Wait—I—“ the man cried piteously on his knees.

But Ygritte didn’t.

She plunged the blade of the sword through his chest, pushing it slowly as she watched the life leave his eyes. And when it had, she stepped back, spitting an angry glob of saliva on his corpse and wiping her mass of hair from her tortured eyes.

She turned to Jon, her face flushed and her braids wild as a line of blood trickled from the corner of her trembling mouth. Tears began to pool in her eyes and Jon could see a track of bruises curving down the slope of her thighs.

He rushed over to her, but hesitated—resisting the urge to grab her and pull her into a hug.

_He didn’t want to force her into anything._

“Ygritte—are you… Did they…?” Jon could barely choke out the words. His head pounded and he became vaguely aware that the lean muscles of his torso were spattered the blood.

She shook her head, shutting her eyes tightly as her breathing sped up—the residual shock of the assault beginning to wrack her body in heaving, wet pants. “No—but they—“ She took a step closer then, falling against Jon’s chest as she began to cry in earnest.

Jon held her for a long time before walking her slowly and wordlessly back to the tree. He pulled her tunic gently down over her head and brushed his thumb against her cheeks, wiping away the tears and receiving a small, pained smile for his efforts.

“Ygritte, I’m sorry I—“

She shook her head and he quieted as she pressed a light kiss to his lips, melting against him as though to preserve his presence—to reestablish his touch by her choice. Jon trailed his fingers lightly down her face, smoothing her hair to one side before dipping his head and pulling her again into a firm hug.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Nothin’ I can’t handle,” she hiccupped—a hint of boldness returning to her tone as she smirked slightly. “I bit one o’ their ears off though.”

“Good,” Jon answered humorlessly, his voice cold as his anger began to bubble again. “You can—you can talk to me… If you—I—“

“Shh, Jon Snow.” She put her finger softly to his lips, halting his words. “I know I can—just… I just need to sit for a moment.”

Jon nodded and slid down the trunk of the tree, guiding Ygritte gently between his legs. She rested her back against his chest.

Sitting there for several minutes, Jon’s thoughts raced with anger and sorrow, his rage throbbing dully—his rage at those men, his rage at their violence and drive, and his rage at the cumulative hardships that he and those he loved had faced.

_It never stopped._

Despite the humidity, Jon felt unbearably cold in the moment.

But just then, a bridled horse lumbered slowly into the mossy clearing—its coat as white as Longclaw’s hilt and its tail flicking as it came to a halt before them.

Jon nudged Ygritte lightly, who shifted in his arms, turning to look where he pointed. “Look, Ygritte... It must have been those men's.”

A genuine smile stretched across her face then. “Looks like we ‘ave ourselves a ride to Meereen, Jon Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to establish some parallels/important differences between some fight scenes from the very beginning of this fic (and a bit from their reunion at the Whitetree) and where we're at now. Sorry if it seems gratuitous or repetitive.
> 
> Only one or two more chapters before Meereen.


	51. LI

**Jon:**

As they got closer to Meereen, Jon found that he had more and more trouble sleeping. At night, Ygritte would slumber quietly next to him while Jon squirmed around on their furs, uncomfortably lucid and terribly exhausted. Some nights, he’d not sleep a wink—watching the sky transform from dusk’s orange to pitch black to dull pink over the course of several long, sleepless hours.

Ygritte had asked about the growing paleness in his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes, but Jon didn’t want to worry her, so he’d said nothing about his stress and merely shrugged off her questions instead.

The truth was, he felt worried enough for the both of them. They’d moved from the cover of Qohor’s woodlands well over a fortnight ago, crossing into the Dothraki Sea on the back of their white steed whom Ygritte had fittingly dubbed Winter ( _“because the name _Snow_ was already taken”_ ).

But over the course of their time in the grasslands, Jon had become increasingly weighted down by his thoughts, particularly by those concerning the nature of his death and resurrection those many weeks ago. In the early days of his rebirth, Jon had not truly had the energy to process it—focusing instead on finding Ygritte and then on his Uncle Benjen’s revelation of Jon’s true identity and, be it fate or not, the necessary role he must undoubtedly play in the future to come. At the time, death’s heft had taken a backseat to the complications and emotions of reunion and prophecy.

But to Jon now, death and future were feeling more clearly and ultimately intertwined than ever before.

_Death would find him again one day, as it would everything and everyone he cared about… And with The White Walkers marching on The Wall, their time was only growing shorter._

It was this harsh reality that was settling fast; keeping Jon awake at night as they approached this next chapter in Jon’s prescribed destiny—as Meereen loomed nearer.

During the days, he’d sit behind Ygritte on their horse, bobbing along in time with Winter’s footfalls and laughing at Ygritte’s chattering commentary—his arms wrapped around her waist. They’d talk together about the beauty of the landscape, chase each other playfully through the tall grasses, and fuck beneath the blue of the sky. But every night, darkness would fall—indifferently wiping away the day’s levities and reminding Jon of life’s only real inevitability.

_Death._

And scarier still, Jon Snow was perhaps the only man alive who had lived it—who knew what this inevitably truly was.

_Nothing—it was nothingness._

At night, Jon would lie awake shaking in a cold sweat—the pressing burden of mortality driving a cold fear into him the likes of which he’d never felt before.

By now, the vastness of the grasslands were again beginning to dry out—giving way to dry desert terrain and indicating the final stage of their journey. With the horse, they were making good time—and Jon expected they’d be to Meereen in just over a sennight.

And on this night in particular, Jon lay awake as he had done so many nights before, with Winter pawing at the dirt nearby and Ygritte stirring softly. The stars shined above him as he watched the sky in silence, feeling terribly lonely. After a time, Jon shifted in his furs, struggling to find peace of mind.

Rolling over, he realized with surprise that Ygritte was also awake—turned on her side and watching him quietly.

“So is this what ya’ve been doin’ every night? Thrashin’ about like this?”

“Er…”

“What’s wrong, Jon Snow?” Ygritte asked; her eyes filled with concern. “Ya’ve been actin’ out of sorts for weeks now—is it… Are you nervous to meet yer Aunt?”

Jon shook his head and sighed. “No it’s—well I suppose that’s a part of it… But I…” Ygritte put her hand on his shoulder, sliding her fingers along its swell with gentle encouragement. “Mostly I’m just—“ Jon’s words found him then—tumbling from his mouth with fearful relief. “—Ygritte, _I died._ ” His statement hung cold in the air for a moment before he carried on. “…And I know what it’s like... And I—well, I don’t want to do it again… And I don’t want it for you… Or for our child… But it’s coming nonetheless…” he said, his voice trailing off with the strain of his emotions. “…It always was.”

Slightly surprised, Ygritte eyed him with saddened curiosity before speaking in answer. “Jon Snow—do ya remember what I said to you back when we were movin’ through The North… On our way to Castle Black?”

“Ygritte—If it’s _you know nothing_ , I definitely—“

She rolled her eyes with a smirk. “Not that—Somethin’ else. You were talkin' about death and how it waited for all us Free Folk if we attacked The Castle… Do ya remember now?” Jon’s eyes lit up as his memory stirred and Ygritte continued. “I said, _if we die, we die—but first, we’ll live._ " Jon smiled sheepishly, recounting her words from so long ago (and even vaguely remembering a time when he himself had said those very words back to her—just after they'd escaped from that group of roaming Thenns). "And I meant it, Jon," Ygritte persisted. "Aye, we’ll die one day—and it might be sooner rather than later. We’ve got things we ‘ave ta do… Dangerous things—dragons to meet and Walkers to fight—but Jon, all that really matters—it’s _right now._ ” She grabbed his hands slowly and pulled one to her stomach, the other to the side of her cheek. “This— _right here_ —this matters… Nothin’ else.”

_Right now. Right here._

He nodded, softening. “I—I just… It hurts.” His voice caught—raw with vulnerability as he swirled his thumb against her skin. “Ygritte, I loved my father and Robb… And Gods, it’s hurt so much.” He shut his eyes despairingly. “I couldn’t stop what happened… I couldn’t stop death when it came for them… Or even when it came for _me_.”

Ygritte laughed softly. “Aye, Jon—no one can stop death when it has a mind ta truly take a person… And you won’t be able to stop it for me or the babe either. It hurts, but it’s _life_ and it’s happenin’ around you right now… You’ve been given a second chance—somethin' I thank The Gods for every day…" She brushed a curl from his face—her eyes flashing with the weight of her words. "Don’t waste life by lamentin’ its very nature, Jon Snow.”

Jon exhaled a shaky breath in that moment, laughing quietly as a warm wave of existential comfort he’d not felt in a long time began to wash over him in a sensation akin to fledgling acceptance. The fearful bitterness had spent so long building up inside him that Jon could barely recognize the lightness expanding in his chest—as though a fist was softly and slowly unfurling inside him.

_Gods he loved her... And she’s right… If life is all there is, then he’ll do his best to truly live it. He'll do his best to hold close the things he loves for as long as he can._

Sensing his slight change in demeanor, Ygritte kissed the tip of his nose, smiling warmly. “Now get some sleep, Jon Snow—Even lookin’ yer best, it’s goin’t be hard 'nough to convince yer aunt of what needs ta happen… And right now, with yer cheeks all tired and sunken, you’re lookin’ ‘bout two blue eyes shy of The Night’s King ‘imself.”

Jon laughed, and gently consoled, he tweaked a smile, turning over and burrowing his face into the crook of her neck. She settled in his hold as Jon breathed in her scent, trying to fully take in the meaning of her words. And after several minutes, he drifted slowly to sleep, a look of tired relief painted on his face.

***

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte sat atop the horse while Jon slipped off to walk along side, siting the desire to stretch his legs. And all morning, Winter had followed his lead, ambling up the rocky, sandy slopes, and huffing indignantly whenever Jon tried to direct them through any steep stretches. Jon would tug on the reins as the horse eyed him angrily—Ygritte laughing all the while.

_Bless Jon Snow, but for all the things he was, he surely wasn’t a horse whisperer._

They’d been tracing the wind of a shallow river all day—its speed and depth picking up as they carried onwards. And then suddenly, they crested the peak of a jagged hill, the sight causing Ygritte’s breath to catch in her throat.

There it stood in the distance—a great pyramid 800 feet high and nestled in the hazy fog of the massive city sprawled out beneath it—its buildings bronze in the sunlight and bigger collectively than anything Ygritte had ever seen before.

_It seemed strange to be here finally... After all this time._

“So—this is it,” Jon said after a moment, startling her. His face was serious—his voice low.

“Aye, Jon Snow—this is it.” She took a deep breath and kicked Winter forward.

They’d reach the city gates by the afternoon.


	52. LII

**Ygritte:**

Jon and Ygritte wound their way closer to Meereen’s center—moving along stretching dirt paths, which ascended through the layers of meandering, sandstone walls wrapping around the city’s base.

Eventually, the dirt beneath Winter’s hooves was replaced by rows of cobbled bricks, and the horse’s footsteps began to fall with hollow clopping sounds that rang so pleasantly in Ygritte’s ears. She’d never heard the noise before.

_She liked it._

As they continued forth, Jon dismounted, walking at Winter’s side and leading the horse through the city. The streets narrowed and the stone walls grew higher around them in the city’s arid, afternoon smog. From Winter’s back, Ygritte reached out her hand every so often, running her nails through Jon’s curls, and spiraling the sprig of white around a finger before dropping her hand comfortingly to his shoulder.

_She could tell he was nervous, and she didn’t blame him._

Droves of bare-chested men and bronze-skinned women dressed in skimp, burlap wraps trickled past with shuffling steps and hanging heads. Every once in awhile, one of them would look up in confusion, no doubt put-off by the fiery-haired woman perched atop the great white horse moving through their midst.

“Jon—are they—“ Ygritte whispered after a time, bending low to Jon’s ear. “Are they slaves?”

Jon paused for a moment, his dark eyes darting back and forth in thought before he spoke. “I don’t think so… They’re not wearing collars.”

“Oh… Aye.”

_Gods—did slavers really force people into collars?_

Through the day, Jon and Ygritte didn’t do much talking—the weight of what was to come pressing heavily on them both, stifling any real desire for conversation.

At one point, Ygritte called out to one of the passing Meereeneese. “Do you know where we can find The Queen?” she asked—her voice as friendly and straightforward as she could make it. The man looked startled and shook his head before beginning to speak in a language she didn’t recognize.

_Gods, it sounds like hissin’._

Flustered, Ygritte looked to Jon, and he stepped dutifully forth, “Er—Daenerys Targaryen?” Jon pressed.

“Daenerys? _Mhysa?_ ” The man nodded questioningly and pointed forward—to the pyramid towering above the city. “Myhsa—Daenerys.”

Jon and Ygritte followed his directions through the weave of the streets, the crowds thinning as the afternoon progressed into early evening. And finally, they found their way to the base of the large pyramid.

Ygritte’s heart rate started to quicken.

Jon led Winter to a nearby hitching stand, tugging on his reins and securing the horse firmly to the wooden post. Jon then pulled his hair into a tight bun and tucked his black tunic into his britches—smoothing the slant of his mustache with a thumb and forefinger.

Ygritte meanwhile slipped off the horse’s side and slid next to Jon, taking his hand in hers and offering a gentle squeeze. His palms were sweaty and he took a deep breath, squeezing back and flashing her a soft smile before dropping her hand and approaching the two guards flanking the large, angled doorway.

His steps were purposeful as Ygritte followed slowly behind him..

_He looks strong._

The guards were dressed head-to-toe in black armor, with heavy helmets masking their faces; revealing only two pairs of solemn, dark eyes staring out at the new arrivals.

Jon cleared his throat and spoke. “We’ve come to see The Queen.”

“Queen Daenerys meeting with council. Sees no one this hour,” one of the guard’s answered in a broken version of the common-tongue.

Ygritte ran her tongue nervously along her teeth.

“Please,” Jon implored—his voice unwavering. “This is important—we’ve come a very long way.”

“Queen Daenerys meet—“

“I know what you said.” Jon spoke steadily. “But please—this can’t wait. We have news from Westeros… News The Queen will want to hear.” Ygritte could tell Jon was choosing his words carefully, reluctant to reveal anything too telling too soon. But when the guard still appeared unswayed, Jon pushed further. “…News about the Targaryen line.”

The guard eyed them warily then before nodding. “Follow me.” He turned on his heels, and Jon and Ygritte accompanied him down a dark corridor—the second guard trailing just behind them.

When they reached a set of heavy, bronze doors, the guard turned. “Wait here.” He disappeared.

Ygritte’s heart was now hammering at the base of her throat.

_This was finally it… And Gods, she hoped that Jon’s aunt would listen—that they hadn’t come all this way for nothing…_

Ygritte could see the same worries crossing Jon’s face as he ran his fingers anxiously through the scratch of his beard.

“I—“ she started, pulling Jon’s hand gently from his jaw. But Ygritte’s words failed her, and she merely looked into his eyes, smiling and trying to convey all her support with just a simple curve of her lips.

Jon tweaked his mouth and nodded knowingly, stepping close and pecking a tender kiss to her forehead just as the great doors opened again with a groan.

The couple broke apart and Ygritte noticed Jon’s fists clench nervously by his side.

“Queen Daenerys sees you now,” the soldier said.

And so, with one deep, collective breath and no further pause, Jon and Ygritte followed the guard through the open doors and into the throne room.

The room was dark and spacious, with early evening’s light shafting through the high windows and casting long shadows across the floor’s light-colored bricks. At the room’s center stood a sloping stone staircase—its presence large and domineering.

Sitting in a throne at its top, was the Queen—her hair long and pale, and her posture perfectly poised in a tight-fitting blue dress—its skirts crisp and pleated. To her left was a woman with full, dark hair, looking just as equally beautiful and composed as the Queen herself, though perhaps slightly less potent. And on the Queen’s other side, stood a tall man with a dark beard—his stance relaxed and confident, a curved dagger at his belt.

After another moment, Ygritte noticed a startlingly smaller man standing off to the side. His hair was shaggy and his beard thick.

_A dwarf in a golden cloak…_

Jon’s and Ygritte’s footsteps echoed loudly through the room as they approached the staircase, but Ygritte soon found herself distracted—unnerved by the presence of the guards who lined the walls with quiet menace. Her steps faltered and she held back a nervous wince.

_They all looked so rigid—Gods even the Crows didn’t look like that… And they’d certainly had sticks shoved far enough up their—_

Suddenly, Ygritte realized that Jon had kneeled at the staircase’s base. And resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Ygritte straightened her body, steadying her stance just far enough behind Jon that she wouldn't have to share in his kneeling display.

“You may rise.” The Queen’s voice was smooth and cool as Jon returned to his feet. “Now—what’s so important that my council was interrupted? Brown Flea said you have information concerning my family line?” One of the Queen’s brows was cocked in an expression of disgruntled interest—an expression that Ygritte might have otherwise mistaken for simpering amusement if the Queen hadn’t looked so simultaneously composed and put out.

Jon’s chest rose with a heavy breath and then he began to speak, his eyes locked firmly on the Queen. “Your Grace, my name is Jon Snow—“

“Jon Snow?” Abruptly, the dwarfed man staggered forward, and Ygritte watched as a shocked look of recognition crossed Jon’s face—his eyes crinkling with the stretch of a warm smile.

“Tyrion!” Jon all but cried.

_Tyrion… Tyrion? The Imp?_

“Look at you; a man grown—I barely recognized you!” Tyrion descended the staircase in a quick flurry of steps and stuck out his hand; beaming.

“You look rather different yourself,” Jon drawled, shaking Tyrion’s hand in return and gesturing to the thick scar running across the man’s face.

Tyiron smiled before slitting his eyes skeptically. “What are you doing here…? The Wall’s a long way from Meereen.” He cocked his head in question.

“I—“

“And just how is it that the two of you know each other?” the Queen interrupted, the stern regality of her voice effectively dissolving the warmth of the men’s reunion.

“Forgive us, Your Grace,” Tyrion said glibly, whirling around to face her. “This is Jon Snow—Jon is Ned Stark’s bastard... I accompanied him to The Wall several years ago—“ Tyrion walked back up the steps. “Jon is a brother of The Night’s Watch now.”

“ _Was_ —“ Jon clarified. “I _was_ a brother of The Watch… But I—“ Jon ran his tongue nervously across his lips. “Your Grace, may we speak alone?”

The Queen arched her brows in surprise before her face fell back into a look of poised neutrality. “Anything you say to me, can be said in front of my council… Now, tell me, Jon Snow, what word do you have—what brings you all the way to Slavers Bay?”

Jon nodded. “I needed to meet you.”

“Why?”

Jon swallowed deeply before answering. “Because I need your help—the world needs your help… And because you— _you_ need to know who I am.” His final words lingered thickly in the air.

“Do I?” Daenerys asked after a moment, obviously miffed by his presumptiveness.

“Yes” Jon nodded, his posture confident.

The Queen leaned forward in her seat—the gesture carrying an almost threatening weight. “Alright… Well, here’s what I already _do_ know, Jon Snow: I know that you’re Ned Stark’s bastard son… Now, what would you have me do with that knowledge? By all accounts, I should have you killed for what your father’s family did to mine.”

Jon shook his head. “That would be a mistake, Your Grace.”

“A mistake?” His contradiction sent a flash of anger crossing the Queen’s face. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m not Ned Stark’s son… I’m—I’m the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jon’s words resonated throughout the throne room—his voice deep and firm as it hummed off the walls. Ygritte’s stomach twisted in a mixture of pride and nervousness. “My mother died giving birth to me in Dorne’s Red Tower and Ned Stark raised me as his bastard—for my protection.”

A heavy silence filled the air, and after several long seconds, it was Tyrion who unexpectedly broke it. “Well—“ He clapped his hands loudly. “If Jon Snow speaks the truth, then this is quite the family reunion we have on our hands…” He nodded towards Daenerys “I think this calls for a drink, don’t you?” The Queen shot Tyrion a warning look, and he dropped his hands then, tapping his fingers awkwardly against his thighs with a resigned grimace.

“And how are we to know if Jon Snow is indeed telling the truth?” The Queen spoke slowly, her face sober and commanding as she turned to Jon. “Am I just supposed to trust you at your word?”

Jon swallowed and looked up at her—his gaze sturdy. “I know it’s not an easy thing to accept—I’m still trying to wrap my head around it myself…” He laughed humorlessly. “I—I spent my whole life thinking I was Ned Stark’s son...”

Daenerys stared pointedly at Jon. “And what changed?”

“Well…” Jon took a deep breath and then launched into his tale. He began with a brief introduction of Ygritte and then, he spoke of everything—of the White Walker’s looming threat; of his murder, his rebirth, and of the Red Witch’s prophecies; of Benjen’s reappearance and Bran’s visions; of The Wall’s collapse. All the while, Ygritte watched the expressions of the Queen and her council—watched warily as their faces contorted with disbelief, as the tall bearded man rolled his eyes at Jon pulling out his flaming blade. “I don’t claim to be a God or even anything promised—” Jon said finally. “And I’m still just a bastard… But I _am_ your blood.” Jon finished with a reserved air of authority—his words echoing throughout the keep.

The Queen straightened her back against the throne when Jon fell silent and took a few moments before speaking in response. “Well, that’s quite a story, Jon Snow… A man reborn with a flaming sword—“

“Any mummer can set fire to a sword—it’s a cheap trick to be sure.” The bearded man interrupted haughtily, crossing his arms and looking down at Daenerys. Ygritte slit her eyes, glaring in his direction.

“It’s not a trick,” Jon snapped, his tone strong and sober despite its edge.

The man with the beard scoffed. “Do you really expect her to buy all this? Even without the army of ice monsters, yours is a hard tale to swallow… A madman wandering out of the woods to say he’s been talking to a tree—and then he tells you,” he gestured roughly to Jon, “that you’re some promised prince as well as the heir to the Targaryen throne?”

“I don’t want the throne—I—“

The Queen held up her hand then, commanding silence. She looked at Jon, and though she appeared slightly eased by Jon’s latest admission, her expression was still grave. “Be that as it may, Jon Snow, Daario is right—at best, your story is a rather aggrandizing one… Is there anything else you can give us—do you have any proof—that you are who you say you are?” Ygritte couldn’t ignore the way the Queen’s eyes shone—the way her tone implored him.

_She wants to believe him._

“I don’t—“

“He don’t burn when he touches fire.” Ygritte spoke aloud for the first time since entering the throne room, startling Jon as though he forgot she stood behind him. And suddenly, all eyes turned to her.

“And you’ve seen this?” The Queen asked.

Ygritte nodded, her throat dry. “Aye,” she answered truthfully, for while Ygritte had not seen Jon make any grand displays of his flame-resistance, she had watched him closely over the course of their travels—noticed the way his hands lingered carelessly as he stoked their fires; their flames licking at his fingers in a way that would have had any other man crying out.

_He was tellin’ the truth._

Daenerys looked back to Jon, her eyes lighting up. “Can you show us?”

Jon exhaled deeply. “Aye, Your Grace.” Jon reached to unsheathe his sword once more, no doubt in preparations to run his hand demonstratively along its fiery blade, but the Queen stopped him.

“No—Jon Snow… Not the _magic_ sword...” Daenerys said the word with noticeable bitterness. “Just with fire.”

Then, on the Queen’s command, several of the soldiers marched from the room, only to return again a few minutes later carrying a large, round basin. The pewter bowl rested on four short legs and could hardly be called a bowl at all. It was shallow and flat-bottomed—filled with dried brush and hay. Behind the men walked Daenerys’ female advisor, carrying a flaring torch in one hand—her other hand hanging by her side and clenching nervously.

Ygritte was nervous too, and her brow had broken out in a cold sweat as the gravity of what was about to happen—what Jon was about to do—settled in.

_Please, let this work._

Despite her possessed elegance, the bronze-skinned woman’s expression was reluctant as she handed the torch to Jon, who smiled best he could. She then climbed the steps and returned to her place beside the throne.

“Thank you, Missandei,” The Queen said before turning her attention back to Jon. “You’re sure?” She asked.

_It’s like she’s darin’ him._

With a determined look, Jon nodded curtly. “I wouldn’t have come all this way if I wasn’t.” And with that, he dropped the torch into the basin in front of him.

The tinder set fire right away—its flames flaring; quickly soaring high and strong.

The atmosphere instantaneously became one of quiet ceremony, and Ygritte stepped back, allowing Jon his space as he slowly unlaced his boots. Kicking them off, he stood over the fire and stretched out his hand, canting it back and forth amidst the flames.

Jon closed his eyes then, and stepped into the basin.

Immediately, the fabric of his breeches caught fire—the flames climbing up his body in winding bursts, burning up the stitching of his tunic until they engulfed his form completely.

He looked ethereal, powerful, and otherworldly, and Ygritte’s breath picked up as she watched in awe.

Jon’s clothes burned quickly away—the tie in his hair disintegrating, leaving his curls falling loose and wild. He stood in the fire with an air of humble pride, never breaking eye contact with the Queen as the flames surged around him.

After a minute, Daenerys stood slowly from her throne, holding her hands up as though to signal she’d seen enough.

And so Ygritte watched Jon step from the flames—his chest heaving and his ribcage rising and falling under his stretch of lean muscle. Despite his nakedness, Jon didn’t look flustered.

_In this moment, he looks stronger than she’d ever seen him._

The room was quiet until Daenerys spoke again. “A true dragon doesn’t burn, Jon Snow,” she said smoothly. “I believe you.”

Ygritte released the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding as Tyrion unclasped his cloak from his shoulders and descended the stone steps slowly. With a sly smile, he handed the fabric wordlessly to Jon, who took it with thanks, and wrapped the material as best he could around his waist.

Jon looked up to the Queen. “I don’t come to take your birthright, Your Grace.” He said firmly.

Daenerys eyed him steadily, her hands clasped in her lap. When she spoke again, it was with considerably unguarded warmth. “So why _do_ you come then, Jon? You said you need my help?”

“Aye…” Jon sighed heavily. “I do—the world does… Because the only way to stop the dead’s army is with fire—with your dragons.” Noting the flash of disbelief again creep across the Queen’s face, Jon continued, his voice picking up in its urgency. “I know it seems hard to believe… But Ygritte’s people have seen it; I’ve seen it—I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t happening.” Jon looked pointedly around the room—meeting eyes with everyone on the council. “The White Walkers are coming for all of us… And the Free Folk can’t stop it, the Night’s Watch can’t stop it, and all the southron kings can’t stop it—only together…” He stressed. “ _All of us_ …” Jon looked again to the Queen. “Winter is Coming, Your Grace, and Westeros will need your help if we’re to keep it at bay.”

Daenerys nodded slowly before speaking again. “How much time do we have?”

Jon shook his head with a frustrated sort of helplessness. “I don’t know—weeks, months maybe? I can send word to my Uncle Benjen—tell him I’ve arrived in Meereen and ask for any news on The Wall.”

Daenerys nodded and then began to walk down the staircase, stopping only when she stood even with Jon. She reached out and put a hand lightly on his shoulder in a gesture of reserved familiarity. “Thank you for finding me, Jon—I’d like to ask that we meet privately in my solar this evening, so that we may further continue our discussion.” Jon nodded in agreement and she dropped her hand. “But in the meantime, I’ll have some rooms readied for you—some fresh clothes and a bath drawn up... I imagine you’re both tired from your journey.” She flicked her eyes to Ygritte who smiled in return.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Jon said, relief stretching plainly across his face.

And though she’d have been hard pressed to admit it, for her part, Ygritte was exhausted, and rather excited about the prospect of silk sheets and warm bathwater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, the Sons of the Harpy rebellions have more or less been tamped out (though of course there will be some background struggles still). Obviously Dany hasn’t fled the city, and she’ll not be heading to Vaes Dothrak any time soon (or any time at all here). Hizdahr zo Loraq and Ser Barristan have both died as they did in the show, and Jorah can be off doing whatever the hell it is that Jorah does, haha, but I can’t stand to deal with him (so let’s just assume the Greyscale spread quickly)? Varys is also bopping about, but won’t show up for a chapter or two. I think that’s it? Cheeeeers.


	53. LIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really struggling here, so big shout out to my best friend for sharing some spring rolls and helping me hash out/edit this chapter.

**Daenerys:**

Daenerys swirled the wine around in its cup before raising it to her lips and taking a smooth, dragging sip. The taste was sweet and sharp.

Night had fallen about an hour ago, her solar now lit by the flames of several flickering torches. She watched as the light bounced off the crystal of the empty chalice on the table—resting in front of the similarly empty chair, which waited for Jon Snow.

_Her nephew._

Daenerys was exhausted, her head thrumming with the clouded weight of tonight’s many revelations. Jon Snow had given her a lot to think about—far too much to fully process in one sitting—and she found that the wine was doing well in keeping her hands steady and her demeanor relaxed.

Regardless, grounded as she was, her stomach still clenched as she mulled over certain thoughts.

_Jon Snow had insisted that he had no interest in her birthright—but did he insist too much? Certainly Rhaegar’s son, bastard born or not, has some claim to the throne? And the wildling woman—Ygritte—She could see the swell in her stomach. Was the babe Jon Snow’s? Did the growing child in itself present a threat to all she had worked for—to all she was owed?_

By stepping into the flames and emerging unscathed, Jon had proved his Targaryen heritage almost incontrovertibly. But the truth of his identity said nothing about what kind of man Jon Snow was, or about his ability to be trusted. Tyrion seemed to respect him, which boded well, but Daenerys was cautious nonetheless.

_She had to be. After all, the last Targaryen she’d known had been Viserys, who’d sold her—body and spirit—for a crown… Viserys was cruel, weak, and power-hungry; she only hoped Jon Snow would prove otherwise… She would never let another man stand in her way._

The Queen took another slow sip just as a gust of wind flushed through the open window. The air was cool and sudden—driving an unsettling chill that had her shivering in her seat.

Abruptly, the metal of the door groaned, pushing forward and revealing Jon.

He smiled softly—a look of nervous reverence settling beneath the slight furrow of his brows as he stepped forth. Jon shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Your Grace.”

Daenerys couldn’t help her light smirk at his apprehension. “Come in—please sit.” She gestured to the chair across from her, and Jon did as he was bid, taking a seat and pouring himself a modest amount of wine following her prodding nod.

“That’s sweet,” he said, lowering the glass from his mouth and brushing his tongue along the strum of his bottom lip—picking up the lingering taste of the juice.

“It is…” Daenerys eyed him with curious wariness, taking in the lines of his face—the sharp, sullen planes that despite their hardened, masculine slopes had a distinct softness to them; his thick, black hair pulled back from his face, and his eyes rich and dark in color. “Well…” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “You certainly don’t look like a Targaryen.”

_Aside from that streak of silver…_

Jon smiled. “No—I’m afraid I’ve got the look of the north in me.” He scoffed a laugh at his expense. “Much less refined.” And though he said it with an air of deprecating apology, Daenerys couldn’t help but notice the pride humming in the edges of his voice.

She smiled into her glass as an awkward quiet fell between them. Her gaze flittered about then, settling eventually on Jon’s hand—his knuckles fidgeting against the smooth of the table’s surface.

_Those are burns…_

Her heart sinking, she shot out her own hand, taking his fist and unfurling it, turning it over and running her fingers along the scarred grooves and ridges. “Why do you have these—?” Her voice had dropped in its friendliness, her stomach churning as the fragile trust she had in this man—this stranger—began to crack.

_If this had all been a trick…_

Jon flexed his hand, wincing. “It’s from before—before I came back….” He met her eyes with sincerity. “I wasn’t always immune to fire. Back in my early days at Castle Black, I set a wight aflame, and I’ve still got this burn to show for it.”

“I see.” She calmed, soothed ever so slightly by his reassurances.

“I saved my Lord Commander’s life that night, and he gave me my sword—Longclaw—in return… The sword didn’t light up before—not until… Not until _what happened_ —until I died…”

_Until he died…_

“And I didn’t have this lock of hair either…” Jon continued nervously, gesturing to the white streak, tied up and startling; zagging tightly against his scalp amidst the sea of black. He clearly sensed The Queen’s disquiet, and so Jon began to speak again. “Look—I’m—“

But Daenerys cut him off, changing direction and dropping his hand. “So fire stops them—this army of the dead?”

Jon nodded, taking another sip. “Aye… I think that’s where your dragons come into play...” He drew a slow smirk and looked around the room pointedly, as though searching for something. “Assuming you do actually have dragons?”

Had his burn marks not rattled her faith so, she might have laughed—almost amused by his gall. But instead, The Queen arched an eyebrow haughtily—her expression cool and collected. “I do… Would you like to meet them?”

_They’ll know better than she whether Jon Snow was worth trusting…_

Jon nodded slowly. “I would.”

She smiled, breaking the stony expression that she wore so protectively. “Tomorrow then—I train every morning.”

“Train?”

“ _Ride_.”

An excited gleam passed over Jon’s dark eyes. “You’ve tamed them?”

“No one can tame them, Jon Snow, not even their mother,” she answered, her tone one of reserved pretension. “But I am learning to work _with_ them. Tyrion has been a great help since his arrival—For a Lannister, the man knows a great deal about the dragon riders of ages past.”

_It had been at Tyrion’s insistence that the training had even begun in the first place._

“Yes, I imagine he would—He knows a great deal about everything; he always was reading… Well, when he wasn’t drinking…”

Daenerys rolled her eyes with rather charmed collectivity. “The two don’t seem to be mutually exclusive for him.”

Jon laughed. “No—I suppose they never were…”

She hesitated as another stiff silence settled between them, but this time, it was Jon who broke it.

“One morning—years ago now—the Stark children and I stumbled upon a litter of Direwolf pups. My fa— _Lord Stark_ let us keep them as long as we promised to train them ourselves.” He tweaked a sad smile and Daenerys saw the way his face fell at Ned Stark’s mention. “Mine was the runt—Ghost. He was whiter than your hair even, but he was clever and he learned fast… He saved my life on more than one occasion, and he’s the reason I’m here now.” The timber of Jon’s voice caught at the end, and he quickly took another drink to hide it.

“But he’s not here?”

Jon looked at his hands. “No—he sacrificed himself to bring me back… Stood atop the funeral pyre with my body—something about life needing death… Or maybe it was the other way around—I don’t know,” he shook his head. “I don’t pretend to understand it.”

Daenerys’ throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He sighed deeply. “You and your family aren’t immune to tragedies either… If my memory serves me correctly.”

She paused again before speaking. “It’s _our_ family now though—isn’t it?” Her voice was smooth—prodding as it urged some semblance of connection between the two of them.

Jon swallowed a laugh. “I suppose it is, Your Grace—forgive me.”

Daenerys smiled, stifling his need for an apology with the wave of a hand and standing up before she spoke again. “Ygritte—the woman you’re travelling with—she’s with child?”

“Aye.”

“Yours?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Daenerys took a resigned breath and smirked with some affinity. “Well… What’s one more?” She said the rhetoric with a mixture of comfort and mistrust—still not quite knowing the ramifications of such a concept of growing family.

Jon smiled weakly and drained his cup as he shifted in his seat.

By now, they had both emptied their glasses and the hour was getting late. “I should let you get your rest.”

Jon nodded and moved towards the door.

But Daenerys called out to him before he could reach it. “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“This threat—these Walkers… It is like you say—they’re truly something to be feared?”

Seriousness hardened his expression and his brow knitted. Brown eyes met violet ones with such genuine intensity, that the air seemed momentarily electric. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Daenerys swallowed heavily before nodding curtly. “Tomorrow then—we’ll meet in the throne room and I’ll take you to see my dragons.”

_Winter may be coming, but her dragons—they were truly something to be feared as well._

***

**Jon:**

Jon clicked the door shut, the suddenness of the noise sending Ygritte padding in from the balcony—her damp hair tied in a loose braid and a billowy tunic draped around her slender form. He noticed with a smile that the pile of dresses on the bed remained untouched, while the stack of men’s clothing left for him had obviously been raided—its contents strewn about the floor unceremoniously.

Ygritte walked over with a smile, wrapping her arms around Jon and pressing her body against his. She dropped a kiss at the bearded knot of his jawline. “And how was yer talk, Jon Snow?” she crooned.

He sighed a laugh. “Tiring—I don’t think The Queen quite trusts me.”

“Give her time—She’ll come ‘round…”

“Mmm.” Jon pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

Ygritte arced her back and met his eyes. “Let’s get you to bed—It’s been a long day and these pillows are right soft; softer even than yer feather ones in Winterfell.” She grinned, raising her eyebrows invitingly.

“In a minute,” he hummed, pulling back. “First I’ve got to pen a few letters—I’ll have to send them out early tomorrow.” Jon sidestepped and walked over to the desk in the room’s corner. "The Queen wants me to meet her dragons in the morning,” he called.

“Does she? Oh, that’s excitin’.” Ygritte’s voice was hoarse and intrigued.

Sitting down, Jon smiled in response and smoothed a piece of fresh parchment flush against the table’s surface before dipping a feather in the trough of ink.

He then began to write.

_Uncle Benjen,_

_Ygritte and I have made it safely to Meereen. We’ve met the Queen and tomorrow I’m to meet her dragons. What news have you from The Wall?  
How much time do we have?_

_Jon_

Jon put down the pen and unfurled another sheet of parchment just as Ygritte walked over, plopping herself on the desk and huffing an impatient breath. The resting candles’ flames canted uneasily as she adjusted her weight.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you all night, Jon Snow.” She said, swinging her legs back and forth. “It’s been downright borin’ bein’ trapped alone in this fancy room.”

Distracted, he smiled weakly. “Just a bit longer.”

Ygritte rolled her eyes and balanced her bare feet on his thighs, beginning to knead her toes against the fabric of his britches.

“Here,” Jon said, hoping to keep her occupied long enough to finish the task at hand. He handed her the letter intended for Benjen. “Blow on the ink—it’ll dry faster.”

Jon set to work on the next note.

_Sansa,_

_I don’t know if Benjen has written you, but he’s returned from the north and there are things you must know._ _I’m sure by now you know that The Watch has disbanded. It’s for the best—The Night’s Watch had no place in this world any longer._ _But that’s not why I write. When Benjen returned, he told me he had spoken with Bran. He’s alive, Sansa—our brother is alive. I don’t understand how or even where he truly is, but I trust Benjen when he says Bran is safe. There was no word of Rickon._

The feather’s scratch halted as Ygritte’s toes travelled up Jon’s thigh and prodded gently at his crotch. His cock jumped in his breeches.

“Ygritte—“

She batted her eyelashes coyly.

“This is important.”

Ygritte dropped her head back then in a gesture of dramatic frustration, pulling her foot from his lap and resting it instead on the crease of his hip. “Gods. Alright!”

Jon took a deep breath and continued.

_But I did learn of my true parentage. I’m not Ned Stark’s son, as I’d always believed, but the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Your father kept it a secret from everyone to keep me safe—even from your mother. Even from me._ _I’ve travelled to Meereen with Ygritte to meet the Targaryen Queen, Daenerys, and her dragons. We only just arrived this evening. We’re both safe._ _Write to Benjen, Sansa. A war is coming and Winterfell must protect The North._ _I’ll write again when I can. Stay safe, sweet sister._

_Jon Snow_

He debated whether or not to cross out the word _sister_ and replace it with _cousin_ , but decided against it.

_Sansa and Arya would always be sisters to him—Robb, Bran, and Rickon his brothers._

Jon passed the letter then to Ygritte who eyed it with interest. “This one’s longer,” she said. “Who’s it for?”

“Sansa.”

Ygritte smirked and laid the paper to the side. “The Queen in The North.” She shifted her foot again, running its arch along the swell of Jon’s filling, eager cock. He grabbed hold of her ankle, stilling her movements.

“Wait—Gods, Ygritte. You’ll be the death of me. I just have to write one more.” His voice was strained.

She rolled her eyes and pulled from his grasp. “Alright… Guess I’ll just keep blowin’ on this ink then.” She pursed her lips and let out a steady stream of air against the parchment—meeting Jon’s eyes and wagging her head back and forth teasingly.

Jon cleared his throat and returned to the final sheet of blank paper. He picked up his pen and started in.

_Sam,_

_I don’t know how else to say it, but I’m alive._ _The Red Witch brought me back with fire and magic—I know you always wanted to be a wizard, so I hope you can believe me when I say so. It’s the truth._ _And since then, I’ve learned a great deal._ _My Uncle Benjen returned from the north. He’s seen things—old magic, and he told me that I’m not Ned Stark’s true son, but the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen._

Ygritte parted her legs knowingly, revealing that she wore nothing beneath the long tunic. She laughed at Jon’s keen expression. But for his part, he stifled a moan and carried on.

_Ygritte and I are in Meereen now—meeting with Queen Daenerys and her dragons. We’re to return north when the time comes—when the real war begins._ _I hope the end of the world is working out well for you, Gilly, and the baby. These are strange times to be sure._ _We’ll see each other again before it’s all over, I expect._ _Write back when you can._

_Jon Snow_

Jon wrapped up the letters, rolling the parchment and sealing them with wax as Ygritte thumped her heels against his shins—circling the crest of his knees with her toes and daring to tease his groin once or twice more.

When all was finished, Jon pushed the rolls aside and practically jumped to his feet, spreading Ygritte’s legs roughly and standing between them as he kissed her hungrily, a low growl escaping from the back of his throat.

“You’re terrible,” he panted, hoisting her into his arms.

She wrapped her legs around his hips and nipped at his bottom lip, dragging its swell between her teeth before letting it drop with a heated smile. “You like it.”

Jon let out a ragged groan and walked them towards the bed. He laid her down and crawled on top, taking her mouth again within his as he pushed his hips into hers, seeking contact.

The pressure felt good.

_Gods, it always did._

And Jon began to rut against her then—rocking his hips with hers as she arched her back into the silk bedding beneath her. Ygritte’s mouth was wet and warm, and she pulled him close, practically sucking the life from him as she held his face to hers and ground her pelvis in slow circles.

Soon, both their tunics had been discarded, and the heat was coiling furiously in Jon’s gut—rolling through him in pulses as he and Ygritte moved faster together. Jon could feel her slick through the tented fabric of his breeches.

He angled back for a moment then, and pulled his cock free before aligning himself and pushing gently forth.

Jon ran his hands around her belly—cradling its curving growth and savoring the warmth of her skin—the feeling of being inside her. He trailed down the ribs of her fiery braid and untied its end with fumbling fingers—letting her hair fall loose and wild. Ygritte reached up and untethered his hair as well, sending his curls tumbling about his face as she ran her nails along the contour of his scalp.

Jon moaned and pushed deeper inside, relishing the sight of her—the creamy slopes of her hips and the smooth of her long, graceful neck, its tendons stretching as she threw her head back in mounting pleasure.

He snapped his hips in long, controlled strokes. But before long, Jon’s arousal began to expand explosively from his core—twisting and growing as he thrust within her more frantically, losing his rhythm as he approached his end.

“Ygritte, I’m gonna—“ But he couldn’t hold on long enough to complete the thought, and his orgasm suddenly ripped through him with a deep, rough cry. His throat tightening and his eyes shut in ecstasy, Jon could feel Ygritte clench around him, tumbling through the beginnings of her own climax. They shuddered to a finish together; Jon breathing heavily as Ygritte pressed tongue, lips, and teeth to the base of his straining neck.

She milked the last of his seed and when Ygritte had stilled completely, Jon fell atop her with an exhausted laugh.

He tugged up the silk sheets from where they lay, crumpled in a mess at the foot of the bed. And Jon rolled over so that Ygritte was on top, letting her head rest on his still heaving chest; the sheets now draped lightly across their tangled forms.

A nighttime breeze tugged at the sheer curtains in the window, as Jon’s eyes fluttered with sleep. And in this moment, he had half a mind to get up, walk down the steps of the Great Pyramid and leave through the gates of the city. He would take Ygritte’s hand and they would just keep walking east. They’d walk to the end of the earth where the ice couldn’t reach them—where Kings and Queens didn’t exist and where all that mattered was the woman wrapped up in his arms.

_They’d walk until they were all that was left._


	54. LIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shout out to my same friend, who helped me sort this chapter out too. x

**Jon:**

Jon and Ygritte walked into the throne room to find Tyrion sitting at the base of the stone staircase, his scarred nose buried deep in a book.

“My Lord,” Jon greeted, walking towards him with a nod and a small smile.

Tyrion looked up from the pages and grinned wryly. “All things considering, Jon Snow, I think we can dispense with the titles, yes?” His smile widened as he dragged his eyes to Ygritte. “Forgive me, I wasn’t able to properly introduce myself last night—I’m Tyrion Lannister.” Standing, Tyrion stuck out his hand.

Ygritte stepped forward, extending her own hand in return. “Ygritte.” She announced, her eyes glinting with genuine warmth. Jon supposed she was both a bit touched and surprised at being addressed, and Jon again felt his humbled warmth for Tyrion grow. “What’re ya readin’ about?” she asked, her voice light with intrigue.

“Saddle design and structure—” Tyrion regarded his book with an air of exhausted disinterest. “I’m looking to most effectively fashion a saddle for a dragon, but I’m afraid I’ve not been able to get my hands on any information about the dragon saddles of old. Meereen’s library isn’t exactly abundant in its resources. So…” he shut the book with a loud clap, sending a burst of thick dust flitting through the shafted morning sunlight. “We’ll just have to improvise.”

“Improvise?” Ygritte asked, the meaning of the word clearly lost on her.

“ _Make do…_ ” Tyrion clarified. “I’ve done it before. In fact, I had a custom saddle commissioned many years ago now for Bran Stark—just after his fall. The same basic principles will apply here, I think—securing the rider to his or her mount... After all, we don’t want the mother of dragons plummeting to her death just because Drogon fancies a roll midair.”

Jon’s brisk laugh was cut short.

“Jon Snow?” A new voice suddenly appeared, sweet and slow as its carrier emerged into the room. This man was bald and plump, and he walked with a quiet flair—the drapery of his gown sliding across the stone floor with dignified grace.

“Ah, Lord Varys. Allow me to introduce Jon Snow… And his Free Folk companion, Ygritte—I trust you heard of their dramatic arrival?” Tyrion gestured to his two companions.

Varys nodded, moving closer and eying Jon with an extreme intensity. Under the stare, Jon shifted his stance uncomfortably, nonetheless offering his best attempts at a friendly smile.

“Forgive me, Jon Snow,” Varys started, a palpable mysticism surrounding him. “Had I been on the council last night, there may have been no need for you to step in the flames… Exhilarating though it must have been.”

“Why’s that?” Jon asked skeptically, the contrast between the gruff of his deep, northern accent and Varys’ velvety drawl startling.

Varys continued—answering as though he’d played the words over in his head many times; as though his words held some great significance. “The morning of Ned Stark’s execution, I met with him in the dungeons—as I had several times during his imprisonment.”

Jon’s eyes lit up, vaguely aware of Ygritte stepping subtly closer to his side. “How did he seem?” Jon asked quickly, yearning for any information regarding the father he once knew.

Varys seemed to consider. “He wasn’t afraid; not for himself… A brave man, our Lord Eddard—until the very end.” He said, his admiration for Lord Stark evident in the seriousness of his voice.

Jon swallowed thickly and nodded. “Did he say anything?”

“Not much—a man of few words, you know… But he did give me a message for Howland Reed.”

“For Howland Reed?” Jon’s brow furrowed. “What did it say?”

Varys met Jon’s eyes with purposeful force. “It said: _If the time comes, ride north and tell him._ ”

Underwhelmed and perplexed, Jon shook his head. “That’s it?”

“ _That’s it_.”

“What’s it mean?” Ygritte interjected, unabashed.

Varys smiled at her. “For a time, I’m loath to admit that I myself did not know. Though of course, I quickly drew my own conclusions—Something Lord Stark must have known I’d do—” He turned back to Jon. “The same conclusions you yourself appear to have drawn—the ones that brought you all this way.”

Jon’s brows knitted as understanding began to tug at the pit of his stomach.

_Ride north and tell him…_

“It was—it was about me?”

_If Howland Reed was at the Red Tower, then surely he must have known—watched as Ned Stark had carried out a babe wrapped in blankets?_

Varys nodded.

Ygritte huffed then in mild frustration, resting her hand on Jon’s shoulder so as to draw his attention. “Who is Howland Reed?” His heart panged, realizing how out of place she must feel.

“Howland Reed saved my f—saved Ned Stark’s life outside the Red Tower… He would have been there when Lord Stark found me; he must have known.”

Ygritte nodded, tonguing the inside of her cheek in quiet thought.

“But,” Jon started, confusion brewing as he looked again to Varys. “Howland Reed never came to The Wall—I never heard anything?”

“No, you wouldn’t have—I never passed on the letter.”

Anger began to simmer at the edges of Jon’s awareness. “Why not?”

Varys took a deep breath before shrugging complacently. “Because it wasn’t time.”

Jon’s throat constricted bitterly. “And you’re the man to judge that?”

Tyrion piped in with short laugh. “Well, Lord Varys isn’t a man exactly—no cock, you see.” He sniped, seeking obviously to ease the tension.

Caught off guard, Jon grimaced.

_A eunuch?_

Varys narrowed his eyes, simpering vexingly at Tyrion before pivoting back to Jon; a look of cool resolve carved into the lines of his features. “I find truths of this gravity best not revealed when known, but rather when needed… And the Realm certainly wasn’t ready—were you?”

Jon stood silent and dropped his head—his eyes downcast.

Varys continued. “In my last moments with Lord Stark, he handed me that letter—a reckless gamble to be sure, but ultimately, one made out of love for a poor, bastard boy left to live out his days at The Wall. And I would have guarded this secret to the grave if I judged it so... But I suppose that’s neither here nor there. For, just as summer must always turn to winter, all songs must eventually be sung... And here you stand before me—a man who’s heard his song… Despite my interferences.” His ended his monologue with a tone of slippery self-depreciation.

A weighty silence filled the air as Jon looked back up, swallowing Varys’ words.

Tyrion broke the quiet. “For all Lord Varys’… Er… _Complexities_ , you can trust him Jon Snow,” he said, his voice rising melodically in its firmness. “As long as I’ve known him, everything Varys has done has been in service of The Realm—in service of our noble Queen.”

And then, just as abruptly as Varys had arrived, The Queen entered the throne room—a cropped tunic and snug, leather britches hugging her slender frame; Daario at her side. “And what about your noble Queen?” She questioned with a drawl.

“Ah, Your Grace! We were only singing your praises.” Tyrion quipped, striding towards her with a grin. “You’re looking well-rested.”

Daenerys angled an eyebrow above her tight smile. “I am…” She turned to Jon, who noticed a slight blush in her cheeks. “Are you ready to meet the dragons, _nephew_?”

Jon’s face startled at the way in which he was addressed, though his expression of surprise was quickly replaced by a warm, stilted smile. “Yes, _aunt_.” He answered—Daenerys’ gesture of familial camaraderie doing well in relaxing some of his anxieties.

The crowd filed out of the throne room, then; Varys parting ways at an intersection, offering only a brief excuse and a farewell nod.

As the remainder of the group worked their way through the pyramid’s passageways, Ygritte wrapped her fingers around Jon’s wrist, pulling him back. And just as they were out of earshot from The Queen and her confidants, Ygritte grabbed the collar of Jon’s tunic, tugging his ear to her mouth. “They’re fuckin’.” She whispered.

“What?” Jon’s breath whistled through his teeth.

“That tall one—with the curved sword… And yer Queen—they’re fuckin’.” She said, the amusement in her voice evident despite her hushed tone.

“How can you tell?”

Ygritte turned her head to Jon, cutting her eyes with an exaggerated roll and a sly smirk. “’Cause he’s starin’ at her with that same look in his eyes you ‘ave whenever ya look at me.”

“I don’t th—“

“I’m right—Bet yer life, Jon Snow.” She said, rolling her lip and nodding assuredly. “Plus, The Queen’s struttin’ about this mornin’ grinnin’ like she woke up jus’ the same way as me,” Ygritte insisted, smiling.

The back of Jon’s neck warmed, a not altogether unpleasant heat spreading across his skin as he remembered their coupling from this morning; the taste of Ygritte’s release still lingering sweetly on his tongue.

But Daario’s voice suddenly shook Jon from his musings. “Are you coming…?” The sellsword called, standing stopped at the top of a staircase as Daenerys and Tyrion descended out of sight—an amused leer stretching across his face. “You’re not afraid… Are you?” Daario questioned teasingly, his words dripping with arrogant ease as they echoed down the hallway.

From his peripheries, Jon could see Ygritte’s nose crinkle, a spark of fierce indignation flaring in the blue of her eyes. For his part, Jon didn’t answer, eying Daario instead with a decidedly affronted lack of amusement. But the man didn’t seem phased, and he merely turned heel, dropping down the sloping steps and disappearing with a loud laugh.

And as they hurried to catch up with their party, Jon swore he heard the word “ _prick_ ,” hiss scathingly from under Ygritte’s breath.

***

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte stood, scraping her boots through the orange sand as she circled around, trying to imagine the coliseum stands, as they would be brimming full of people—the crowd’s collective roar deafening even in fantasy. But as they stood now, the rows of steps that encircled the stadium’s pit were completely empty—The Queen and her small entourage the only people in sight (aside of course from the pairs of soldiers partitioned around each grand entrance carved into the concrete).

The Queen was wrapping leather braces around her forearms—a long, black whip resting between her hide boots. Meanwhile, Tyrion was speaking with the Queen’s female advisor—who had recently arrived, escorted by a rather serious (and important) looking member of the Unsullied.

A patient smile on her face, Missendai was speaking in slow throaty hisses (a language Ygritte didn’t recognize)—one word at a time as Tyrion repeated clumsily after her.

Ygritte liked Tyrion, she’d decided.

_He was sharp and kind—a Lord, maybe, but an outsider in his own way… Jus’ like her Jon Snow._

Ygritte couldn’t say the same for the Queen’s sellsword however, who, just then decided to walk lazily towards she and Jon, a confident spring in his step.

_Gods, he’s walkin’ like he owns the place…_

“This used to be the fighting pits for slaves,” Daario said. “Until the Queen freed them all.”

“What kind o’ fights?” Ygritte asked.

“Fights for sport—fights to the death.”

Her stomach dropped sickeningly. “ _Sport_?” Ygritte spat the word. “Wha’, watchin’ folk forced ta die fightin’ for the glory o’ some fattened master?” She grimaced, turning to Jon. “And yer people thought my lot were barbaric.”

“Oh it’s barbarism for certain,” Daario said. “But there _is_ something rather exhilarating about it all.”

“Surely a bloodbath can only be called sport from the comfort of the stands,” Jon shot bitterly.

Daario cocked an amused brow. “On the contrary—it’s down in the pit where all the excitement is.”

“How would you know?” Ygritte asked indignantly.

“Because I spent four years fighting in them.”

“You were a slave?” She said, surprised.

“I was. As a boy of two-and-ten, my mother sold me to a master—I fought my way through the pits in his name, and when he died, I was granted my freedom.”

“And now you serve Daenerys?” Jon asked, his tone decidedly more relaxed (if not almost impressed).

Daario nodded. “I’ve found no greater purpose… She’s the conqueror the world has been waiting for—the one the people deserve—” He said assuredly. “—The Breaker of Chains; The Mother of Dragons.”

_Mayhaps she’d judged him too soon…_

Tyrion trotted over then, a small horn swinging at his hips. “Speaking of dragons…” He pulled the horn from his belt and showed it to Jon and Ygritte—turning it back and forth before them. “I’m afraid it’s not a real dragon horn,” he apologized. “Ox bone, you see… But we did need some way to at least call them.”

And at that moment, Ygritte noticed several Unsullied soldiers dragging three large cattle carcasses into the center of the arena, about 100 paces away from where their small group stood.

“Care to do the honors?” Tyrion asked, holding out the horn to Jon. “Three should do it, Jon Snow,” he guided.

Following an approving nod from The Queen, Jon took the bone and placed its tapered end between his full lips. He pulled in a deep breath and then exhaled forcefully—his cheeks puffing out with the effort.

The horn’s long bugle cut the silence—rolling through the hazy air. And Ygritte was immediately reminded of the Night’s Watch warnings, which had crooned so invasively over the still of the Frostfangs all her life. Jon had told her what they’d signified; so long ago…

_One for rangers…_

Jon swallowed deeply—his Adam’s apple jumping into the thick of his beard. He licked his lips and blew once more.

_Two for wildlings… Though o’ course she’d known that one (every wildling knew that one)…_

Her heartbeats picked up as Jon raised the horn once more and blew it with a final, confident exhale.

_Three for winter._

The long blast curdled to an end—its resounding memory echoing around the stone of the stadium. There was an oppressive silence that pervaded the air following, during which Ygritte dared not speak a word.

And then, she heard it—the steady, unmistakable beat of distant wings. The sounds grew closer—flapping out of sync with mounting, rhythmic punches.

_Gods, how big are they?_

Suddenly, the light cut—a great black dragon emerging from over the coliseum’s stands and eclipsing the sun with the stretch of its wide, leathery wings. It circled fluidly, moving through the air with elegant strength—its body rolling up and down in the sky as though it were swimming atop swells of an invisible sea.

The sight of it took her breath away.

Another dragon soon joined it—green in color and slightly smaller, but just as magnificent nonetheless. Ygritte’s mouth had fallen open in awe, and it fell further just as a third dragon emerged from the depths of the stadium’s widest entrance—crawling on the joints of its wings and squawking excitedly. Its cries reverberated loudly throughout the open space, leaving her eardrums ringing.

Ygritte tore her eyes to Jon, who stood stock still—similarly as mesmerized by the creatures before him.

_And Gods, she’d thought his eyes were wide at seein’ the giants…_

The two dragons in the air descended, landing in the stadium’s center with a flutter of wings, and shaking the ground beneath as their great, clawed feet settled in the sand.

The black one shook its head, nipping at its brothers before sending a thick plume of fire scorching across the pile of meat.

_Oh, she could feel the heat from all the way over here._

They began to snap and tear at the blackened carcasses, throwing their heads back to send the food sliding all the way down their long, ribbed throats. Pieces of charred flesh flying, the dragons feasted hungrily—with the same energy Jon sometimes had gnawing into a leg of chicken after a long day’s travel.

Tyrion grinned. “Words and whips only go so far in training… A hearty breakfast speaks much louder, we’ve found.”

But the moment broke, for suddenly, the green dragon lifted its head and stared pointedly in their direction. It dropped the hunk of meat it had been chewing, and looking right at Jon, it released a long, strangled cry.

And then, it started clambering forward.

The dragon moved quickly—pulling itself on the bends of its wings; the strength of its screeches growing louder as it crossed the dirt, heading straight for Jon.

“Jon!” Ygritte called, starting to run towards him. But Tyrion caught her by the arm, guiding them several steps away and leaving Jon standing alone to face it.

The dragon kept coming still, barreling towards Jon and picking up speed—its eyes flaring as it spread its wings, kicking up into a shallow glide.

Ygritte’s heart hammered in her throat as she wrung her hands helplessly.

And then, stirring up a cloud of dust, the dragon touched down at Jon’s feet.


	55. LV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real quick

**Jon:**

Jon’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, but he stood his ground—his jaw set firmly and his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white.

The dragon stared at him unblinking—the scales of its face shimmering green and bronze in the early light. Jon stared back, feeling his pulse thrum throughout the entire length of his body.

And then, just as suddenly as it had landed, the beast extended its neck, its nostrils flaring as it pushed its snout forward—exposing several rows of sharp, pointed teeth all dripping like stalactites.

Slowly, it pressed its muzzle to Jon’s chest, inhaling deeply.

The warmth of its breath soaked Jon’s skin through his tunic; the force of the air sucking through the dragon’s nostrils pulling Jon to his tiptoes—his shirt riding up and exposing the cant of his flat belly to the fresh morning air.

Jon’s heart thundered in his chest as he slowly raised his hands from his sides—palms flat—in a gesture of nonresistance.

And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the dragon drew away with a primordial rumble. Head cocked, it eyed the man before it with imposing intrigue.

Jon held its gaze, gently dropping his arms as he ran his tongue nervously across his lips.

And then, the dragon blinked—the translucent films of its lids scoring across the globe of its golden eyes before it pulled its head back with an air of abrupt decision. It screamed loudly—its voice grinding and scratchy as it roared heatedly in Jon’s face. Yet this time, Jon didn’t feel threatened. Something about this cry was different, as though it wasn’t meant to intimidate, but rather done in tribute.

And just like that, it was over.

The dragon turned abruptly—hurrying back to the charred pile of meat and snapping at its cream-colored brother as it lunged for a remaining leg of steer.

Jon’s legs felt a little like jelly, and he took two stumbled steps back, huffing with relieved laughter. His shirt, smeared with mucus, clung to his torso; marbling the lines of his lean muscles.

“Well,” Daenerys said, effectively ending the silence. “Rhaegal seems to approve,” she drawled; an impressed smirk stretched beneath a lofty, tilted brow.

Jon walked over in a daze, rejoining the group and sliding quietly next to Ygritte as his breathing calmed. She regarded Jon with bold intensity, her eyes swimming with a mixture of pride and relief. And reaching out surreptitiously, Ygritte rubbed the edge of his sticky tunic between the pads of her thumb and forefinger before resting a nimble hand at the swell of his hip in a subtle gesture of loving support.

_She’s still shaking._

Jon noticed her other hand resting on the slope of her stomach, though whether its positioning was absentminded or purposeful, he couldn’t say. Regardless, Jon dipped his head and swallowed a warm, buzzing smile.

“So,” The Queen started, suddenly pulling Jon from his stupor and pointing to the dragons with the handle of her long whip. “You’ve met Rhaegal. The yellow one is Viserion… And the black one—that’s Drogon.” With that, she stepped forward, throwing her shoulders back and standing tall as she called out. “Drogon!”

Drogon looked up, dropping the flank of meat between his teeth with a disgruntled purr. He began moving towards her then—the blades of his shoulders rising and falling as he slunk forth, catlike in his movements.

When Drogon reached her, he turned his body to the side, lowering himself on the ground and stretching the length of his frilled neck across the sand.

Then, without looking back, Daenerys mounted her dragon. She slid gracefully onto Drogon’s back, settling at the base of his neck—her bent knees hugging the stretch of spine between his two wide wings.

“Sōvēs,” she commanded, her voice low and unwavering.

And with that, Drogon pushed off the ground, billowing his wings with a flurry of powerful thrusts as he pulled thick pockets of air beneath his weight. The force sent bursts of sand sweeping across the arena floor.

Drogon gained altitude, and from beneath, the diffused sunlight shafted dazzlingly through his wings, illuminating their span, red and warm. Jon marveled at the sight; how dragon and rider moved together with such combined power and purpose. And shifting his head to trail the dragon's movement, Jon caught sight of Daario in the corner of his eye, the sellsword's expression humble; eyes wide with awe.

Noticing Jon's stare, Daario spoke. “It never gets old—seeing her up there,” he said with soft reverence, never once taking his gaze from The Queen.

From Jon’s other side, he could see Ygritte smirk. And when she realized that she had Jon’s attention, she jerked her head in the direction of The Queen before making a display of darting her eyes pointedly back to Daario. She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth and pumped her hips in a couple of dramatic thrusts, as though to drive home her meaning.

Blushing, Jon swiveled his head around nervously.

_Gods, he hoped no one else saw that._

But as to be expected, Ygritte only laughed and shook her head at Jon’s mortification.

For the next hour, they watched as The Queen rode around the rim of the stadium’s ring—never going too high. Tyrion called out suggestions now and again, and every so often, Daenerys snapped her whip, earning an angered (though progressively more submissive) cry from the dragon beneath her.

“Does she ride them all?” Jon asked after a time.

Tyrion shook his head. “No, Jon Snow—Just Drogon… The bond between a dragon and its rider is exclusive—as long as she lives, Queen Daenerys will mount no other.”

“Will Jon get to ride one?” Ygritte cut in.

Tyrion smirked at her boldness, but paused before answering. “That’s a question for The Queen.”

Ygritte turned to Jon and smiled, brushing a loose curl from his face with a sweep of her pale hand. “That green one liked ya, Jon Snow.”

_“Will Jon get to ride one?”_

A surge of excitement jumped to the base of his throat at just the thought.


	56. LVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little brooding, pouty Jon Snow before HBO has him being all "regal, manly warrior" Sunday. Though, I mean... Either way, I love it. <3

**Jon:**

Meereen’s heat was so oppressively palpable; it had a smell all its own. The smell was heavy, a combination of the musk of arid dirt, the dank of sandstone, and the tang of dried grass. It made Jon’s throat itch.

He and Ygritte had reached the city just over a sennight ago, and so far, things had been busy. Each morning, he would join The Queen and Tyrion in the training pits—watching as Daenerys flew with Drogon over the great concrete stands of the emptied arena. And then each night, he would meet privately with Daenerys in her solar—talking over a cup of wine; getting to know the woman he now called aunt.

Jon respected The Dragon Queen, and he would even go so far as to say that he liked her. Though, truth be told, aside from knowing her basic political principles and vague details from her past, he didn’t have much to go on when making a character judgment—Daenerys was perhaps even more reserved than he. Perpetually severe in expression, her violet eyes revealed little, while simultaneously taking in a great deal.

Never good worth words (let alone with small talk), Jon often found himself shifting uncomfortably under The Queen’s cool gaze—huffing anxious chuckles at awkward intervals or hesitating for fear of speaking out of turn. And while Daenerys’ silences oft resonated collectivity and regality, Jon’s appeared rather brooding and less refined by comparison—an obviousness certainly not lost on either one of them.

However, as the days went on (despite the more or less fumbling nature of their evening talks), Daenerys did seem to be relaxing in his presence; smiling at her nephew more genuinely and frequently as her initial skepticism of him began to wane—something Jon expected was largely due to Rhaegal’s apparently unwavering trust in Jon.

For, during The Queen’s morning workouts, Rhaegal had continued to take an interest in Jon, circling the pit as Jon did, never taking his eyes off him. Subsequently, a few days back (following Tyrion’s suggestion), Jon had approached the green dragon—his head bowed respectfully and his hand outstretched. Much to his relief, Rhaegal had accepted the advancement, lowering his own head and allowing Jon to reach out a tentative hand and stroke his scales.

That night, Daenerys revealed that in the coming weeks, she thought it wise for Jon to begin training with Rhaegal—to eventually become a rider himself. Rhaegal has chosen you, she’d said, with an earnest, proud smile. And so Jon had accepted the offer graciously, both humbled and excited (if not just a bit afraid) by the prospect.

But despite all this—the business of his schedule, the whirlwind of developments, and the approaching promise of sitting atop a dragon for the first time—Jon and Ygritte still found time for themselves. And every afternoon, they would take their leave and go for a walk—just the two of them.

On this particular afternoon, they sat by the docks—Jon resting his weight on his elbows as he leaned against the stone wall overlooking Meereen’s shallow port. Ygritte was perched just below him, her feet dangling over the ledge; the point of her bare toes trailing pulsing rivets lazily in the murky harbor’s water. All around them hammers clanged, sails flapped, and wetted wood crackled as it was warped forcefully into shape.

Prior to Jon and Ygritte’s arrival, The Queen’s entire fleet had been burned to oblivion during an uprising, and the docks had since become a bustling site of energized shipbuilding, with former slaves now employed as shipwright laborers. _One thousand ships_ , the Queen had said; all being built to carry her army across The Narrow Sea to Westeros—to the North.

_He only hoped the ships would be ready in time._

But for now, Jon and Ygritte sat, enjoying their quiet observation of humming activity playing out in the waters before them.

The heat thrummed in Jon’s temples, tightening around his head like a vice, while beads of sweat trickled down, contouring the backs of his ears. His face was flushed—his clothes sticking to his skin. Ygritte fared no better.

_Gods, he missed the North._

Jon exhaled a heavy sigh as he leaned forward over the wall, catching sight of his reflection. The water rolled gently, distorting his portrait and rippling the pale of his smooth cheeks, the scrape of his raven beard. Hair pulled into a bun, the face staring back at him looked older than he’d remembered.

And just then, Jon startled, swearing his reflection had flickered—transformed ever so briefly—into that of the late Ned Stark’s; face dropping and dark eyes lightening, ghosting the gray of Ned’s dull twinkle.

Jon blinked and bowed closer to the water, where he found himself both relieved and saddened to simply see his own face looking back.

_Must be this damned heat._

Even so, now, Jon was struck by just how much he did look like the man he had called father all those years. The thought sent warmth tightening through his chest, and a slow smile tugged at the corner of Jon’s lips—the pitch of his eyes relaxing with glowing spirit.

Perhaps this likeness wasn’t as much in strict appearance as it was in demeanor—in the way Jon’s mask of reserved fortitude softened so quickly with the melt of a sincere smile, just as Ned’s had whenever he’d catch Arya muttering impudently under her breath, or when he’d watch Bran run gleefully through Winterfell’s courtyard, or whenever he’d stand to the sidelines, silently observing Robb and Theon spar—practically breaming whenever Robb landed a good hit. The other boys rarely noticed Ned’s presence, but Jon usually would. Similarly observant, Jon would stand in waiting, always quietly hoping for a smile of his own.

_Would Lord Stark have a smile for him now?_

The glow of contemplative reminiscing gave way to pained remembrance, causing his face to fall. And Jon sighed deeply, just as a rock splashed in the water, breaking his reflection into a thousand stirring shards. He looked up to see Ygritte smiling teasingly.

Her pink lips were pressed together coquettishly—her top braid messy (its tendrils dancing softly in the light breeze). Cocking her head, Ygritte's smile stretched as Jon’s expression softened once again, mirroring that of hers.

She laughed wordlessly then, dropping her head and kicking her feet back and forth, her toes grazing the water’s surface.

_Gods, she looked beautiful._

***

**Ygritte:**

Suddenly, the cadenced beating of wings Ygritte had become so familiar with over the past week sounded from overhead, and she looked up, the lines of her long neck extending gracefully with the swift motion.

Sure enough, from just above the crests of Meereen’s sandstone buildings, emerged Rhaegal—his green scales catching marvelously in the afternoon sunlight.

Ygritte stood from the water’s edge, bunching her skirts, and flattening her palm, drawing her hand to her brow and shielding the sun’s rays as she followed the dragon’s flight with her eyes. Rhaegal swooped lower and Ygritte quickly turned to Jon, whose feet were planted steadily as he watched.

The dragon flew over then, the resulting gusts from his great wings refreshing in their drumming forcefulness. As Rhaegal passed, he twisted his giant head, looking to Jon and letting out a long, sharp cry before picking up speed and heading towards the open bay.

Jon released a breath and took Ygritte’s hand in his. “Shall we walk?” He asked, stepping forth as though she’d already offered up an answer.

She smirked and followed his lead.

Hand in hand, they walked quietly through the city streets for a time. Ygritte’s belly had swelled past the point of comfort, and in the past few days, she’d reluctantly exchanged her britches for the roomy flow of dresses.

Now, she wore a loose white gown—sleeveless and synched freely around the base of her neck, just draping the swoop of her collarbones. The material was sheer and light, and its skirts billowed around her ankles as they moved forth. As much as Ygritte resented the gown’s femininity, she couldn’t deny its comfort, and there was a certain thrill she got from the consistency of Jon’s response—since the change, he’d been barely able to control himself.

_She couldn’t say she minded._

Eventually, Jon broke away, dropping off behind her. But by the time Ygritte had turned to see where he’d gone, Jon had returned—holding out a blue rose with a smile.

Ygritte rolled her eyes, reluctant to show him just how touched she was by the romantic gesture, and took the flower delicately in hand. She then plucked off the thorns and tucked its stem behind her ear. “And ‘ow does it look?” She asked, clasping her hands together and lifting a foot with a dramatic flutter of her eyelashes.

Jon’s smile widened. “Lovely.”

Ygritte hummed appreciatively, kissing him gently before turning on heel, and walking a few more steps. “I’m surprised these roses grow all the way in Meereen…” she said, dragging her fingertips along the grooves of the brick wall beside her. “Though I s’pose if they can grow in the snow, they can—“ She suddenly realized Jon wasn’t beside her, and trailed off, stopping in her tracks and looking back only to find him staring; a mesmerized expression on her face. His eyes were glazed over—the tip of his nose pink.

_Gods, she knew that look._

Ygritte’s eyes trailed down to the unmistakable (but expected) bulge in his breeches.

Then, with new purpose, she sauntered back towards Jon, doing a twirl as she skipped the last few steps, effectively closing the distance between them. She pressed herself against him, toying with the collar of his tunic before pushing a soft kiss to his lips.

He reached around, settling his hand at the back of her neck and pulling her towards him with urgency, forcing her mouth open with the plunge of his tongue.

Not one to concede control, Ygritte pulled back, dragging the plump of his bottom lip with her. She let go and narrowed her eyes as she dropped a hand to his belt, tugging lightly before taking his hand and guiding him to the covered overpass nearby.

The space couldn’t quite be described as an alley, but its shade offered limited privacy nonetheless. The stone tunnel had a low ceiling, and vibrant green vines meandered through the lines of the cobblestones and bricks.

Ygritte pushed Jon against the wall and kissed him again before reaching down and cupping his cock. She breathed an amused laugh to find it so hard—already twitching at just one stroke of her hand.

Over the fabric she began to work him, rubbing his straining shaft through the cleft of her palm as she circled the head ever so lightly with the tips of her fingers. As Jon’s breathing increased, she shifted her attentions, cradling his clothed balls with a gentle roll of her fingers as her thumb continued to caress his length. Her grip tightening, she could feel the warmth of his skin even through the scratch of wool.

And over time, Jon’s kisses became sloppier—less focused, and eventually, he threw his head back, thunking it against the bricks and working to control his breathing. His mouth had parted as huffs of labored air escaped from his lips—the caps of his two front teeth peeking out from their swell. She increased the speed of her hand.

_They’d only been at this for a couple minutes..._

Ygritte loved how quickly he came undone under her ministrations. There was something so rewarding about watching Jon’s careful face break, watching his breath hitch and his collectivity melt as he lost control. Later, Jon might be embarrassed, but for now, Ygritte knew he was already too far-gone to hold back.

“I—“ he started, his voice gruff.

Ygritte gave his balls a squeeze, and ran her hand firmly along the outline of his member, palming it fervently. She traced the waistband of his britches then, feeling the muscles of his canted stomach twitch and quiver at her touch—a strained groan rolling from his mouth.

And so finally, she slipped her hand into his smallclothes, taking heated flesh in hand and tugging once, twice more before Jon’s hips stuttered forcefully from the wall, his movement accompanied by a hoarse shout and the pulsing spurt of hot liquid dribbling swiftly through the cracks of Ygritte’s fingers. She worked him through his finish, the friction from his woolen placket rubbing her hand raw from inside its confines.

As her motions came to a halt, Jon leaned back against the wall bonelessly, his breathing returning slowly to normal. “Gods,” he began, chest still heaving. “It’s like you’re always… Trying to prove a point.”

Ygritte laughed, pulling her hand away and shaking off his semen with a few flicks of her wrist. “Aye, I may be…” She looked down at his britches, noting the obvious stain on the fabric’s camel-colored stitching. And pulsing her tongue inside her cheek, she laughed with a teasing wobble of her head. “I think I proved it.”

Jon’s brows pulled together, but he capitulated regardless, closing his eyes and throwing his head back once more in exhaustion. “Aye…” He cracked an eye open. “You couldn’t have…?” he stopped though, clearing his throat as though he’d thought better than to finish the thought.

“Couldn’t ‘ave what, Jon Snow?” Ygritte prodded skeptically.

His cheeks reddened ever so slightly as he straightened up, looking forward again with a wince. “Well…” He gestured down to his sullied breeches and shifted his stance to indicate his discomfort. “You usually… Well, you at least pull it out… For when…”

“Oh,” she chuckled, slightly affronted. “What? You wanted me to take yer prick out for you?” She laughed as he dropped his eyes, effectively shamed over having had the audacity to suggest she should have done him any additional services (or so Ygritte imagined).

“This mess isn’t my fault— _You_ ’re the one who spilled in yer britches, Jon Snow … Besides, I didn’t want ya to dirty my dress—I’m a lady now,” she jested lightly.

Jon scoffed, but smiled nonetheless. “Right—how could I have forgotten?” He reached out then, gently taking her hand and guiding her body into a spin. The edges of her gown twirled with the motion of the dance, and when she’d circled fully, she fell back against Jon, pressing her palms flat against his chest and a final kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Her own lust stirring, she retreated, dropping her head to his shoulder and turning to look at the horizon line in the distance. Jon followed her gaze and they watched together as Rhaegal’s distant silhouette surged over the faraway water.

“Are ya ready, d’ya think? To ride him?”

Jon’s chest rose with a heavy breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I imagine,” he answered.

“Hmmm… A greenboy with a green dragon.” Ygirtte cooed, grabbing the front of Jon’s britches teasingly and jostling him with a laugh. She could feel the stick of his drying release sliding along her fingers, and scowling, Jon pushed her hand away, before adjusting himself with a grimace.

Ygritte rolled her eyes, smirking. “Oh, quit poutin’.”

He shot her a disgruntled look. “Only if you quit provoking.” Ygritte chortled loudly at that as Jon continued to pull at his soiled breeches. “Gods, this is… _Uncomfortable_ ,” he complained.

_Reborn prince or not, Jon was still Jon—her brooding, steadfast, eager Jon. And Gods, she loved him._

“Oh, come off it—it’s a small price to pay for bein’ the only man in the city still with his cock... And you're lucky ya've still got me ta pump it for ya.”

He shuffled his feet, in stubbornly boyish lieu of a _thank you_. "I’m not the only man with—Lord Tyrion and—“

“Alright, alright,” she laughed, and sighing fondly, Ygritte moved back to his side, lacing her fingers within his. “Anyway, let’s head back—get you cleaned up. I quite fancy a bath meself,” she finished with a wink.


	57. LVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna take a little moment to say thanks to everybody for doing this with me (ha whatever this is)—for all the reads and reviews. The comments are always really fun and humbling, and it truly means a lot that people care (especially in times when I'm feeling anxious or disheartened by it).
> 
> Though at the end of the day, all shout outs go back to the original writers of the series and to the characters themselves, who honestly have such awesome life of their own. I'm just playing here... But this stuff feels important nonetheless, and writing these two has really helped me process a lot in my own life.
> 
> OK. Blah blah gratitude abound. x

**Ygritte:**

She woke slowly, sleep’s remnants fluttering at her eyelids as she pulsed gradually into waking consciousness. Ygritte opened her eyes, knuckling away the rimming twist of tiredness. The sheets were cool and silken, and she rubbed her bare legs together beneath their cover, indulging in the smooth sensation running across her skin. Rolling over, Ygritte found Jon’s space empty, his smell still lingering on his pillow.

Smiling, she buried her face and inhaled deeply, only to be roused by the sound of footsteps coming from the room’s adjacent solar.

Jon emerged topless with his britches unlaced—his hair sticking up at all ends, no doubt tousled into such a state throughout the course of his night’s sleep. Noticing Ygritte, a surprised grin flicked at the edges of his lips, and he moved towards the bed, holding out two purpled fruits in the clutch of his pale hand. “Want one?”

She cocked her head curiously, pulling herself into a sitting position. “Wha’ are they?”

“Figs—the servants must have left them,” he said, offering his hand towards her.

She took the fruit skeptically, rolling it in her fingers before looking to Jon. “How do ya eat them?”

His mouth tucked together in a confusedly amused smile—words stalling just behind his pursed lips before tumbling out teasingly. “You put it in your mouth.”

Ygritte cut him a glare.

“Look,” he said, biting straight into the skin of his own fig. The purpled juice dribbled down his chin, catching in the scruff of his beard as his chewed.

Ygritte followed lead and took her own bite. Swallowing, her blue eyes widened excitedly. “Gods, Jon—“ She took another urgent mouthful. “Fuck this is good… I’ve never ‘ad anythin’ so sweet.”

Pleased, Jon smiled. “There’s a whole bowl in the next room,” he said, gesturing. “I’ll get—“

“No, don’t trouble yerself, Jon Snow,” Ygritte replied with quick casualty, unfolding her legs from the covers as she slipped her feet to the ground. “I can get them meself.”

He’d been particularly doting as of late; something Ygritte expected had to do with the ever-increasing size of her belly. Ever more, Jon had been quick to offer an arm or carry out small favors, which Ygritte had found as equally sweet as she did frustrating.

_She could still take care of herself—pregnant or not, she wasn’t some delicate princess._

Ygritte placed a hand on her stomach and pushed herself up from the bed, cursing herself as her feet tangled and she stumbled forth, knocking into Jon.

“Careful,” he said warningly—concern scratching at the edge of his voice. “Here, let me—“ He held her by the crooks of her arms, making to maneuver her.

Ygritte pulled away with annoyance—her tone sharp as she began to reprimand him. “I don’t need—“ but her eyes fell then to the scars that scaled the stretch of Jon’s torso, and her breath hitched with sorrow. She’d seen them a hundred times before, but something about the moment struck her differently—ripping through her as though his wounds were fresh and his pain resurfaced. But for his part, Jon seemed not to notice, his eyes dark and imploring—shining with nothing but love and concern for the woman before him.

_Gods, despite everythin’ that’s happened to him, he can still be so warm—so kind._

And so then, Ygritte softened in his hold, a change of heart washing over her. She’d let him have this if he wanted.

“Well alright—I guess you can help me if ya like.” She threw her head back, tossing her hair in her best impression of regality—her chin raised proudly despite the flirty, mocking grin that adorned her face. Ygritte then pointed commandingly to the solar. “Take me to the figs, Jon Snow.”

He grinned, dipping his arms beneath her knees and scooping her effortlessly into the air. “As you wish, my lady.”

Jon sat her gently on of the solar’s cushioned benches. He even did so much as to bring her the bowl, and Ygritte smirked a thank you before biting into the fruit—relishing the way its juice squirted so tastefully across her tongue, the pulped seeds pleasing in texture. Drops of crimson liquid soon began to stain the white of her night shift, but never much one for propriety, Ygritte couldn’t’ say she minded.

A knock suddenly sounded from outside and Jon stirred, picking up his tunic from the chair and shrugging quickly into its cover before opening the door. He soon returned, walking slowly—a roll of parchment in hand.

“What’s that?” Ygritte asked, pulling another fig from the bowl as Jon sat down next to her, the wood of the bench’s base moaning under his weight. Ygritte stretched out on the loveseat, dropping her feet in Jon’s lap as he tore at the wax seal.

“It’s from Sam,” he said, smiling as his eyes began to dart across the page.

Ygritte studied Jon’s face quietly; watching while he took in the letter’s contents, his smile soon giving way to seriousness—the thick of his dark brows stitching together in thought.

The letter must have been long, for Jon didn’t look up for quite some time. Ygritte ultimately lost interest in her subject (a man, who in fairness, she’d already spent a good amount of time looking at), and opted instead to run her eyes languidly around the room, dropping her head to the seat’s cushioned arm.

She trailed her fingers along the weave of the rug beneath them while sun shafted through the barred windows, splashing across the floor in long columns of reflected light, and catching in Jon’s unruly curls as he eventually leaned forward, looking up and pulling a hand down the slope of his tired face.

“What’s it say?”

“Well, it—“ Jon cleared his throat, coughing into his fisted hand, and smiling. “He says he always knew I’d come back.”

“And ‘ow’d he know that?” Ygritte asked, her eyes narrowing.

Jon scoffed, “Because I _always come back_.”

Ygritte rolled her eyes. “Could ‘ave said as much to me when he was draggin’ me through that blizzard… What else?”

“He’s written about Oldtown mostly—Gilly and the baby… But he also says he’s been going through some books…” Jon trailed off.

“And…?”

“Well—he says in tales of old, that fire alone can’t kill the Walkers—not like it can with Wights…” Jon’s eyes skipped across the parchment. “Then he talks about dragonglass for a while… But… Well, he says it’s not just glass that will kill an Other… But Valyrian steel as well.” Jon said the words calmly, but she could hear the gravity they carried. Ygritte dragged her eyes to the corner, where Longclaw leaned, resting against a table—white wolf pommel jutting proudly from its leather hilt. “Sam says a slice of the blade can shatter a Walker into a million pieces.”

“Does it?” She mused warily.

Her world stilled.

The revelation carried all the foreboding weight of winter itself, and in the moment, it fully struck Ygritte just where their journey would take them—just how this had to end. Her stomach twisted as an image of Jon wielding Longclaw’s fiery blade through the air flashed through her mind—his breath ragged and cold as he stumbled through the force of the swing, slicing through the chill as he faced the Night’s King.

She’d known this was coming all along—they both had. But that didn’t make this sinking feeling sink any less. It made her want to pull him close and never let go, and from the way Jon reached out, skirting his hand along the line of her shin, she could tell he felt the same. His knuckles whited like bone, the pads of his fingers sweaty.

_Her Promised Prince._

In Meereen’s heat, surrounded by all this decadence; these new faces, food, and drink, it had been easy to push aside the full weight of what was to come. But the truth of this letter had rattled them both, reminding them of the cold reality, which brought them all the way here in the first place. And for Ygritte, for the first time since Benjen had stumbled through the forest with words of destiny rolling off his tongue, winter’s approach felt brutally tangible—brutally real; Jon’s importance made all the clearer.

“You were meant for this, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said quietly—her voice raspy with fearful significance. “It’s like yer uncle said—like that witch said… You’re the man of stories—the prince who’s meant to chase the night away.”

Jon sighed heavily, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “I don’t like to think like that,” he said steadily before speaking again, slowly. “But I’ll do what I have to—when the time comes… We both will.” His voice was hoarse as he closed his eyes with pained processing, and then he scoffed, shaking his head. “I just…” He smiled sheepishly, as though admitting some great shame. “Some days I just want to run away with you—to hell with all this.” Jon waved his hand, gesturing as though to the rest of the world in its entirety.

“Aye, Jon Snow, it’s temptin’. But it ain’t right.” She smiled softly, lamenting the inevitable sacrifices that would come with Jon’s significance in the war to come.

_And Gods, hadn’t they already sacrificed so much?_

Agreeing, Jon shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

Ygritte scooted closer. “Jon, you matter to me more than anythin’—you and our babe.” She took a deep breath. “Squabblin’ kings don’t matter, and castles, and walls, and banners… And fuckin’ figs—“ She threw her fruit despondently to the ground. “—They don’t matter… But you and I do—people do… And there won’t be no people left to matter if winter isn’t held off.” She looked to Longclaw, her voice hardening with resolve, as she spoke her final sentiments; as much to rally herself as to reassure Jon. “You’re the man the world needs—the northman with dragon’s blood and a Valyrian blade.” Her words hung in the air—their weight washing through with nuanced acceptance made novel by the moment. And Ygritte couldn’t say then whether she was more proud of Jon or afraid for him—afraid for them.

Jon leaned into her touch as she raised the palm of her hand, cradling the side of his face; running her fingertips through the coarse of his beard. They sat there for a while in silence, holding each other as the hour’s severity ebbed.

***

**Jon:**

“Lord Stark had a Valyrian steel sword,” Jon spoke after a time, lifting his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “A greatsword called Ice— “ he huffed a laugh. “Robb dared me to take it down from the mantle once...“

He paused, remembering the scene from his past.

The Stark ancestral sword had gleamed proudly in its place above the Great Hall’s hearth as Jon and Robb stood before it—its blade flickering in the firelight. They were both just boys of two-and-ten then, lean and wiry. Sansa and Jeyne Poole sat at a nearby table, but the room was otherwise empty.

“Go on, Snow—take it down.” Robb hit him lightly on the arm, as though to provoke action. “Father won’t find out if we’re quick about it,” he urged with a boyish grin.

Jon’s brows merged together sullenly, torn between the desire to impress his brother and respect for his father’s prized possession.

“Robb—“ Sansa’s voice cut through the quiet, so like her mother’s. “Don’t.”

Jon couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t even bother addressing him. It wasn’t anything new, but his glower deepened nonetheless, steadying his resolve.

Wordlessly, he stalked over to a nearby chair, dragging it behind him, the echo of its legs scraping against the stone floor, hollow and scratching. Sparing a glance behind him (in hopes the girls might be watching intently—their hearts aflutter at his pubescent display of boldness), Jon stepped onto its seat, steadying himself before reaching for the greatsword.

He ran his fingers hesitantly along the flat of the blade, realizing with growing dread that the sword was at least the length of his entire body, if not longer.

But Jon shoved aside his doubts, and slowly, he wrapped both hands around the giant pommel, before lurching the sword from its hold.

Immediately, the weight threw him off balance, and Jon stumbled to the ground, kicking the chair out from under him and crashing the blade against the stones; evoking an enormous clatter.

Hands splayed, Jon landed hard on his knees; his dark curls cascading around his face as his breath came in fast, shocked pants. Looking up, he saw Sansa’s hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide with panic.

“Are you al—“ Robb began, just as Ned Stark and Maester Luwin came running into the room.

Jon stood up, gripping the sword’s handle as shame pooled in the pit of his belly. “Father, I—“ he started as Ned walked swiftly over, the anger evident in the echo of his steps.

Lord Stark wrenched the sword from Jon’s hand. “Are you hurt?” He asked.

“No,” Jon answered, his eyes downcast as he tucked his hand behind his back so his father couldn’t see where the skin of his palm had been scraped away from the fall.

“This is not a toy,” Ned said with firm ferocity. “Did you think for a second what could ‘ave happened if you’d fallen the wrong way?” Shaken fury rising, he cuffed Jon punitively on the side of the head, who took the blow with as much quiet dignity as he could muster (and only the faintest of whimpers). “You could ‘ave ended up with its blade in yer gut.” Ned looked now to Robb. “Both of you, you should know better… Now, go to your chambers. You’ll sleep tonight without supper,” He said tiredly, the growl of his voice dropping.

“Yes father,” the boys answered glumly.

Jon recalled then how little Arya had snuck a crust of bread into his room that night, not knowing that his father had stopped by just an hour earlier with a brimming bowl of warm stew accompanied by a tired tousle of Jon’s hair.

Jon shook his head, pulling himself back into the present and looking to Ygritte to finish his story. “Anyway, it was too heavy, and I dropped it… I got a good boxing on the ears for that one,” Jon concluded, grinning with sad reminiscence.

“Hmm,” Ygritte started. “Well you’ll wield yer own sword now, Jon Snow… But don’t drop this one when the time comes.”

“I won’t, Ygritte,” he answered, his eyes stirring with sincerity.

“Good... Because I don’t want to lose you—I don’t ever want to lose you… Not again.”


	58. LVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit all over the place. Jon-centric. Riding themed?

**Jon:**

“I was told Rhaegar loved to sing,” Daenerys said, padding out onto the balcony of her chambers. “And play the harp.”

Jon’s brows twitched with confused surprise as he stood to follow. “My father?”

The Queen turned, eyeing him with a sly grin as she smoothed her hands flat along the terrace’s solid stone railing. The sun flitted through the ripples of her braid, caressing the edges of her platinum curls as Jon moved to stand beside her. “Yes, your father,” Daenerys clarified. “They say he was very good.”

Jon dropped his head, swallowing a smile. “What else do you know about him?” He asked, his eyes beseeching; looking for some semblance of connection with the father he’d never meet—some indication that Rhaegar wasn’t the monster Jon thought him to be.

Her smile stretched, forsaking its terseness for genuine warmth. “Ser Barristan Selmy said Rhaegar was the finest man he’d ever known.”

_A fine man? But a kidnapper and a raper still?_

The Queen’s words did little to reassure Jon, and the thought of Rhaegar Targaryen’s blood pumping through his veins still made Jon’s heart sink (as it always did). He worried his bottom lip, keeping his sorrows to himself as he merely grunted in response.

Daenerys continued, a smile wavering on her lips. “He said Rhaegar never liked to kill… But of course, that’s all Viserys used to talk about: what a strong warrior Rhaegar was.”

Jon swallowed thickly, steering the conversation away from his father. “What was he like?”

“Viserys?” The Queen’s face hardened. “Viserys was a monster.” She turned and walked back to the solar, refilling her glass and taking seat at the round table.

Jon took his seat next to her, pulling a long, dragging sip from his own chalice.

“Madness lives in our bloodline.” Daenerys said with quiet resolve, as though she were speaking to herself just as much as to Jon—as though she could feel the truth’s severity heavy on her tongue.

Surprised by her candor, Jon nodded and looked up, holding her gaze steadily as his words failed him. He ran a hand through his hair, his expression softening as he remembered the only other dragon he’d ever known. Moving on, he spoke again with restrained excitement. “I knew Aemon Targaryen.”

The Queen cocked her head with slight doubt, the hint of a smile returning to her face. “How?”

Jon grinned warmly. “He was the Maester of the Night’s Watch. He was wise and he was kind.” Jon shook his head encouragingly. “There was no madness in him.”

“How old was he?” Daenerys asked with cheerful incredulity.

Jon laughed, raising his eyebrows for emphasis. “ _Old._ ”

She laughed in answer. “Yes, he must have been…”

“He was at least a hundred.”

Daenerys shook her head with joyful disbelief as Jon took a relaxed breath, realizing with growing comfort that discussing the old man had brought him some relief.

_For if Rhaegar’s blood ran through him, then by the same coin, so did Aemon’s._

The pair was quiet for a time, before Jon spoke again. “Can I ask you something?” He asked hesitantly.

“Yes.”

“Why do you want the Throne? When the Great War is done, why not just stay in Meereen? You’ve already done so much good here.”

Daenerys took another sip of her wine. “I want the Throne because it’s _mine_. Meereen is not my home, Jon—Westeros is, and there’s good yet to be done there.” She eyed him with cold regality. “Can you understand?”

He nodded, moved by the strength of her vulnerability. “Aye.”

Over the rim of her glass, she eyed him skeptically. “But you’ve truly never wanted it—the Throne?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Even as a boy?”

Jon smirked. “All I ever truly wanted was to be a Stark… Besides, I wouldn’t trust myself with the Throne.”

She paused, thinking before flicking her eyes to his with powerful intensity. “I trust you, Jon Snow.”

Touched, Jon smiled—warmth swelling in his chest. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He drained his goblet then, the alcohol beginning to buzz around the rim of his head.

And, when Jon slept that night, he didn’t dream of thrones or titles, but instead of Ygritte and their babe, the brisk gusts of northern winds, and wild berries ripe for the picking.

***

**Jon:**

Jon woke with heat flushing through his belly, his manhood stiff between his legs. Taking a deep breath, he cracked his eyes open, only to see Ygritte standing at the foot of the bed, running her long fingers through her hair.

“You ready?” she asked.

Jon propped himself up on his elbows, nodding languidly.

_Today he would begin his training._

Ygritte smiled toothily as she crawled atop the mattress. “Good,” she said.

Jon pulled his legs apart invitingly, bending his knees and welcoming the press of her body against his. As Ygritte lowered to kiss him, Jon’s cock bobbed impatiently against the globe of her belly. She laughed through her grin then, dropping a soft kiss to his lips. Her smile wasn’t mocking, but instead born out of pleasant surprise by the eagerness of his state. Jon knew she had to have expected as much—he woke up in similar conditions on most mornings—but the way Ygritte’s kiss deepened, the way she smiled excitedly to the growing responsiveness of his moans, warmed his heart and only further spurred the heat of his reactions.

Jon ran his tongue along the smooth of hers, stroking and nipping as he bucked his hips, the fabric of his smallclothes strained and tented, their pointed crest already dampened by Jon’s excitement.

Amidst a huff of breath, Ygritte pulled away from their kiss, dropping back onto her knees. Half-lidded, her eyes shone as she raised a hand to her mouth, placing the other one between Jon’s legs—dipping her fingertips just inside the waistband of his smallclothes. His breath hitched, muscles fluttering as he watched her drag her tongue salaciously along the flat of her palm. And the sight of her alone had Jon near approaching his edge, but that was before she reached down, freeing Jon of his underclothes.

As her wetted fingers wrapped around his heated flesh, the ache in his gut intensified with a surge of rolling pleasure. Ygritte tugged once, twice, skimming her thumb along the cleft of his crown as Jon’s eyes rolled back in his head—his teeth digging harshly into the plump of his bottom lip in attempt to maintain some semblance of composure.

And when she lowered her mouth to his length, it only took one swipe of her tongue before Jon lurched away, his eyes shut tightly as he shook his head. “I won’t be able to—“ he managed. So Ygritte fell back, retracting her touch much to Jon’s equal relief and despair.

He opened his eyes then, his cock throbbing—the sensation echoing throughout his entire body. “Lie back—let me—“ he rasped.

Ygritte obliged with a knowing smile, opening her legs as Jon moved atop her, pulling off her shift before burrowing his face into her core.

He dipped his tongue inside the warmth of her folds, stroking and pulsing until she was heading unmistakably towards her quivering climax. She cried out with a hoarse whimper; fingers clenched softly in the thick of his curls as she jerked her hips arhythmically through the bow of her peak.

They lay still for a few moments, all heavy breaths and tangled limbs, before Ygritte growled with the ferocity of urgency Jon knew her to so often possess.

Still not sated, she pushed him to his back, switching their positions once more. Ygritte straddled his hips and taking his cock in hand, she lowered herself onto his length—the sweet wet of her walls driving Jon mad with pleasure as she enveloped him fully.

Heat tumbled in his belly, crawling and pulsing through his limbs as she rode him. And it was all he could do to resist shutting his eyes and giving in—finally letting himself barrel over the edge he’d so long been approaching. But instead, he watched her—eyes glossy as he soaked up her every movement, her every noise.

Ygritte’s belly was round, her breasts flushed and bouncing with the force of her hips’ strokes. And in that moment, heavy with child and wild with abandon, Jon had never thought her more beautiful.

He raised a hand, skating his fingers along the discs of her pebbled nipple and taking soft hold just as Ygritte began to grind with greater purpose.

It was all he needed.

Jon spilled before her, crying out her name with a shaky grunt as she rode him through his finish, rolling quickly into her own with a stream of moans Jon thought loud enough to rouse the rest of the pyramid.

He had already begun to soften by the time Ygritte came down, wincing slightly at his sensitivity as her writhing shuddered slowly to a halt. She collapsed on top of him with a heaving sigh, and Jon could feel her heartbeat racing through her skin, his own just as forceful inside his chest.

Jon stretched his arms out then, throwing one around her shoulder as she turned on her side, tracing her fingers lightly around the meager, dark hairs, which rimmed his nipples.

A canted smile stilted across his face as Ygritte nestled the point of her chin in the dip of his shoulder. And looking at her now—rosy-cheeked; vulnerable and strong all at the same time—Jon couldn’t help the way his throat tightened. “I love you, Ygritte,” he said—his voice scratched and low.

Ygritte smiled. “And I you, Jon Snow.”

***

**Jon:**

Adrenaline coursed through Jon as he approached Rhaegal. And though the dragon had prostrated itself before him, one wing fanned out in the sand with an air of invitation, Jon’s nerves were still in tatters.

Nonetheless, Jon stood tall, the thin of his tunic catching in the light breeze as he mentally prepared himself for what was to come.

“Go ahead, Jon Snow—he’s waiting.” Tyrion prodded gently from where the Queen and her entourage stood behind Jon, Ygritte amongst them.

Nodding with resolve, Jon stepped forth, placing the sole of his boot at the end of Rhaegal’s flattened wing. The dragon purred encouragingly then, and Jon steadied himself before hauling the entirety of his weight atop the plain of leathery skin. He dropped his hands, catching the ribs of bony digits and effectively pulling himself along the wing’s swell, hand-over-hand as though climbing a ladder.

Finally reaching Rhaegal’s back, Jon settled himself between the fold of wings with a decidedly ungraceful grunt. And already, he could feel the dragon’s heat from where its lungs expanded beneath the stretch of Jon’s legs.

Heart racing, merely sitting atop the dragon gave Jon a surge of heady confidence—its spell broken slightly when Rhaegal moved beneath him, his scales shifting uncomfortably between Jon’s legs. Wincing, Jon adjusted his position, his glower deepening as he struggled to get comfortable.

“Is something wrong?” Daenerys asked from below.

Jon’s mouth fell open slightly, unsure of how to quite articulate his current predicament to The Queen. “No, Your Grace,” he grimaced, offering up no further explanation.

But when Jon squirmed again, Daenerys stepped forth, her eyes slitted. "You're making a face," she said with an air of skeptical accusation.

"Well ta be fair, he's always makin' that face," Ygritte quipped.

After an awkward beat, Jon took a deep breath, his brows knitting with an air of apology. “It’s just that…" He cleared his throat. "For a man... Well—it’s just not that comfortable.”

Eyebrows arching with understanding, Daenerys smirked and let out a brisk laugh. “We could have you unsullied, if you like.”

Jon’s face broke then with amusement, the shock of The Queen’s teasing doing well in overshadowing any embarrassment he felt. He watched as Ygritte barked a laugh, hitting Daenerys playfully on the shoulder. And though the Queen looked momentarily taken aback by Ygritte’s forwardness, her face quickly softened into one of the biggest smiles Jon had seen her give. Jon's mouth twisted next into a soft smile of its own—his heart swelling at the way Ygritte always managed to evoke such lightness in people.

Eventually, Daenerys looked again to Jon, her tone more serious. “I’m sure Tyrion can have a saddle fashioned for you… One with a man’s stones in mind.”

Bowing his head, Jon grinned sheepishly in answer.

“You remember your commands?” Tyrion asked then, breaking the moment.

Jon nodded, wrapping his hands slowly around the spikes sticking from the base of Rhaegal’s neck and taking a long breath before speaking. “Sōvēs,” Jon directed; his words cutting through the silence like the cool of a kitchen-blade through butter. And for what Jon’s fumbling pronunciation lacked, his low, commanding voice all but made up for.

Rhaegal kicked off immediately, shaking Jon’s balance and forcing his knees to squeeze tighter, desperate to maintain their grip. The pair climbed in altitude, Rhaegal’s wings pulsing; gulping gusts of air beneath their massive stretch.

And then, before Jon could blink, they were off in earnest, soaring above the city—the Queen, Tyrion, Ygritte; all quickly transformed into distant specks on the ground. Jon huffed an awed laugh, struck by how small things looked from so high.

His hair whipped in his face, the wind whistling in his ears as Rhaegal cried out sharply, the beast’s rumbling excitement vibrating all the way through Jon’s core.

After a time, Jon’s heart stopped hammering, and he found himself surprised that at this height, the world could seem so momentarily calm. He remembered then the emotion of standing atop The Wall—how simultaneously big and small one could feel when casting their eyes over such large stretches of land. And he couldn’t say why, but that feeling always brought him a brewing sense of hope. It was the same feeling he had now.

As the morning turned, the sun arced across the sky, sending its light bouncing off the bay and shimmering off the gold, which adorned the city’s structures so that Jon’s vision grew increasingly speckled in nature.

Eventually, Rhaegal left the city walls, dropping low to the ground and skimming the desert hills. And speeding through the landscape, Jon was reminded of all the night’s he shared with Ghost—running in the forest through Ghost’s eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling the weight of the canine teeth, which hung from the leather strip around his neck. He missed Ghost every day.

_His white wolf._

Finally growing tired, Jon stumbled through his commands, ultimately managing to redirect Rhaegal back to the arena, where they landed with a powerful thud. He dismounted then with relative ease, sliding to the sand—his hair wind-swept and his skin flushed.

“How was it?” Daenerys asked.

Jon shook his head, walking to Ygritte and lacing his fingers wordlessly through hers. “I—it was...” But he didn't have the words. Pausing, Jon turned again to Rhaegal before whipping back around. “What’s the Valyrian word for thank you?”

The Queen smiled. “Kirimvose.”

Jon nodded in appreciation and walked towards the dragon, Ygritte in tow. However, he dropped her hand and took the final few steps by himself, reaching out and smoothing his palms against the green of Rhaegal’s neck. “Kirimvose.”

As he rejoined the group, he could see Daario nudge Tyrion in the side with a grin. “His Valyrian is worse than yours,” the sellsword drawled.

“That’s not saying much,” Tyrion quipped back with a smile.

And squeezing Ygritte’s hand, Jon laughed in spite of himself.


	59. LIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been forever--trying to get back into some groove here.

**Jon:**

By the time Jon had finished reading the letter, his hands were shaking.

Taking a deep breath, he slid the parchment onto the smooth surface of the desk and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand down the rough of his face.

_Mance was dead._

Benjen’s letter had been long; describing the desperate state of the meager 200 wildlings who had returned from Hardhome, and then even further detailing the gruesome events of the battle itself. _Not a battle by tell of it_ , Benjen had said, _but a slaughter._

Mance’s men had rowed into a White Walker ambush, and while many died in the fighting, even more were simply left behind in the heat of urgency.

_Left to join the dead’s army._

The village gates had been closed in panic; all those on the wrong side condemned. And bold leader he was, Mance had died for his people, facing off with the Night’s King as the Free Folk sprinted to the boats behind him.

_But a steel sword was no match for an ice blade._

Much to Jon’s swelling relief, Tormund had survived, guiding the return party consisting of mostly women and children, who had arrived at Castle Black only several sennights past.

Unfortunately, amidst the chaos of battle, The Watch’s small stash of dragonglass had been lost, but Benjen assured Jon that they already had more shipments in motion—set to arrive any day from Blackwater Bay. He further advised Jon to continue his training and promised to be in touch. _Winter is almost upon us,_ he’d said.

Jon poured himself a cup of wine and took a long, dragging sip, which quickly transformed itself into a hearty gulp. He drained the glass and poured himself another.

The candlelight flickered with the night’s breeze as Jon pushed himself from the table.

_He had to find Ygritte. He had to tell her._

***

**Ygritte:**

By this point in the evening, Ygritte was already steadily into her cups.

Several hours ago, she and Jon had returned from their afternoon walk, and Jon had taken his leave—pressing a chaste kiss to Ygritte’s lips before turning on heel and heading to the Queen’s solar for their nightly conference.

Ygritte had watched him walk away, toeing lightly at the sand. She was proud of Jon—moved by his humility and steadfastness as he fell further into his role as a Targaryen. But the warmth of her pride was not entirely unmarred. For though Jon never complained, Ygritte could see it on his face every night, how it wore on him—the way he reluctantly shouldered this burden of identity.

_An identity he never even wanted._

Jon would stumble into bed at late hours, the feathered mattress dipping with his weight as he unlaced his boots with a string of tired grunts—Meereen’s political lifestyle having drained him of energy; enveloping his quiet spirit the way sweat clings clammily to skin.

Though to be fair, it wasn’t just Jon who was tired. Life in Meereen had been an adjustment for them both, and for her part on the city’s figurative outskirts these past couple weeks, Ygritte disliked the culture—despised the bowing and scraping, the handmaidens she’d send away every morning with increasingly less patience, and the forced politeness overlaying every interaction.

But still, all this was expected; all this she could handle—swallow in stride. However, decidedly more unfortunate than any culture shock, was how much Ygritte missed Jon’s undivided attentions and the constant companionship they’d shared on their travels here. Now, there were duties Jon had to see to, council meetings to attend, training to be done, and appearances to keep up, and as much as she knew it unfair, Ygritte had begun to resent him for it.

After their walks (which had each day been growing progressively shorter as Jon’s schedule synched tighter), Ygritte would bite her tongue, processing this mixture of pride, guilt, and angry loss as she watched Jon’s retreating back— the fabric of his tunic stretched tightly over the slope of his broad shoulders. From there, she’d oft retire to their bedchambers alone, stretch out on the loveseat and stare at the ceiling—her hands splayed languidly over the globe of her belly as boredom and loneliness raged an internal war for her attention.

It wasn’t that Ygritte needed Jon by her side at all times, and it wasn’t even that she couldn’t stand to be alone, but more so that Jon’s identity granted him the attention and time of others, where as hers did not. Here in Meereen, Ygritte had no one. Here, she existed on the sidelines, feeling more and more like an accessory to Jon’s successes. And though of course Jon himself did nothing to further these feelings, they existed all the same.

But today, much to her growing relief, things had taken a different turn. For following Jon’s departure, Ygritte continued to walk by herself, wandering aimlessly through the winding streets until she was just on the edge of the fighting pits. From inside, she heard hooting and clapping, and interest peaked, Ygritte had followed the source of the shouts.

And quietly, she surveyed the scene before her.

At the stadium’s middle, Daario and Grey Worm stood several paces away from a straw target, their backs to her. Her footsteps soft, Ygritte skirted the arena’s perimeter, approaching a weapons rack as she watched, coming to rest just behind its cover.

A snapping sound cut the air then, as Grey Worm’s spear stuck into the straw’s center with a loud thwack, its length bobbing tautly from the force of the throw. Ygritte wrapped her fingers lithely around the bars of the weapon rack’s frame just as Daario cried out in admiration, clapping a heavy (albeit congratulatory) hand on the Unsullied’s shoulder.

“You truly never miss,” the sellsword marveled.

Ygritte dropped her hand, running her fingers absent-mindedly along the swell of a bow, which leaned against a wooden partition—a bundle of arrows resting by its side. Taking notice, she smirked and turned her attention back to the game.

Daario stepped up then, spinning a dagger in his hands before cocking his elbow and flicking his wrist. The knife sliced through the air, hugging the spear as it came to rest at the center of the bull’s-eye. Daario shot Grey Worm a grin as he stretched his hands wide in some masculinized, arrogant interpretation of a bow. “And neither do I,” he drawled.

Ygritte had rolled her eyes then, and without further hesitation, she picked up the bow and notched an arrow, readying her shot and letting loose in one fluid motion. The arrow whistled through the air, over Daario and Grey Worm and nestling finally in the thick of the target’s core—its feathered end jutting proudly between the handle of Daario’s dagger and the shaft of Grey Worm’s spear.

The men turned their heads swiftly, regarding her with expressions that began as ones of surprise, but softened quickly to those of shocked admiration. Ygritte beamed toothily, doubling over in a dramatic parody of Daario’s previous bow, the skirts of her dress whipping about her ankles.

And then, Daario sauntered towards her. “Do they teach that north of The Wall?”

Ygritte laughed haughtily. “It don’t need to be taught—marksmanship is in my people’s blood.”

The sellsword smiled, his eyes shining with an ambitious mirth that rivaled even that of Ygritte’s. “Care to join us, then? We’ve been at this all afternoon and both of us are yet to miss our mark.”

“And wha’ do I get when I win?”

And thus the rest of the day had progressed: a contest of aim transpiring between the three of them—an air of camaraderie growing with the competition. Daario was quick-witted with his bars and jabs, and though Ygritte was outwardly annoyed by the persistence of his boasting quips, she actually found the verbal banter a refreshing challenge, relishing in the speed of their developing back-and forths.

She laughed to herself, thinking how different this was from her teasing with Jon. For with Jon, Ygritte always played the aggressor, goading him time and time again into huffing out some sharp retort—breaking his composure and even oft eliciting one of those frustrated sighs she so loved.

_Gods, it was just too easy._

But with Daario, she’d pleasantly found herself an equal match—their verbal sparring quickly developing into a contest all its own. However, eventually, darkness fell, and with the bull’s-eye tattered and no clear winner yet determined, the trio had moved to the Pyramid’s Great Hall, where she and Daario had entered into a competition of a different sorts: drinking.

And so they sat now, crowded around a long table with Tyrion and Missandei (who had joined their party a little over an hour ago).

“Thank the Gods for wine!” Tyrion exclaimed excitedly, earning him a hearty chuckle from the group.

Ygritte’s head buzzed pleasantly—a thrumming throb pulsing in her temples as she downed another glass. Daario’s eyes were half-lidded by this point, a sign Ygritte took as positive for her impending victory, despite her own altered state.

She drained another glass. “Keep up, Daario Naharis.”

Missandei hiccupped into her chalice then—a tipsy laugh echoing into the billow of its bronze bowl. By her side, Grey Worm sat, composed and stiff, taking slow sips—grimacing whenever the liquid skated slowly across his tongue.

Tyrion poured another round—the red liquid sloshing over the brim of Ygritte and Daario’s cups as it fell into their flaring hold.

The night was young and warm, and for her part, Ygritte was enjoying herself immensely.

“Ah, and here arrives the Dragon Prince,” Daario taunted lightly, his head swiveling to the doorway.

Ygritte followed his gaze, turning to see Jon approaching the table hesitantly—his face pale and his glower all the more pronounced in the candlelight. Though whether his expression was in response to Daario’s use of mocking title or to something else, Ygritte couldn’t say.

“I’m—“ Jon started, his voice coming out as a rasp. He rolled his lip between his teeth as though stifling an answer before shifting to Ygritte. “Ygritte—would you come to bed?”

“No’ yet, Jon Snow. I’ve got ta beat—“ her grin stretched wide as she burped—the pink of her lips pulling up and exposing the white of her teeth, “—the sellsword. Come’n drink with us!”

Daario rolled his eyes and then looked back to Jon, hoisting his cup with an air of friendly invitation. “Yes, you should join us,” he said. “But only if you can keep up.” He smirked with a wink.

Jon smiled half-heartedly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that didn’t quite resonate sincerity—the knot in his throat jumping as he swallowed thickly. “Thanks—no… Ygritte…” Jon jerked his head sharply, as though to imply she should follow.

And how the gesture immediately sent her blood boiling. For, here she was—enjoying herself without Jon for the first time since arriving in Meereen, and he was ignoring her desires; trying to drag her away.

“Ah to be young…” Tyrion started, his smile warm and encouraging. “But surely your bed can wait, Snow. One drink—“

But Ygritte cut the Lannister off before he could finish, turning her back on Jon and tightening her fingers around her glass—her heart-rate heightened with annoyance. “Get yerself off tonight, Jon Snow—I’m stayin’ here.”

The table fell quiet then—Ygritte only vaguely aware of the silent awkwardness through the haze of anger and wine which clouded her perception.

“Ygritte—“ Jon’s voice was strained, his patience clearly starting to run thin.

“Jon Snow,” she said back at him, mimicking the way he’d said her name along with the sourness of his expression. Jon’s eyes flared, but her next words set him over the edge. “I’ve already sucked yer cock once this—“

“Seven Hells!” Jon’s voice rose, echoing through the hall, loud and scratching. She’d embarrassed him or made him angry—perhaps a mix of both.

_Good._

“Ygritte, I’m not askin’ you to—“ Jon took a deep breath, collecting himself as he clenched his fists tight. He stepped closer then, reaching out and dropping a hand restrainedly to her shoulder. “Please—this is important.” And looking up, she saw the way his face was flushed angrily—the way his temples still pulsed. But she also noticed how his touch was gentle—his eyes soft and imploring, as though to convey some sense of urgency. And so Ygritte’s confidence faltered—the full force of her fury giving partial way to anxiety as she read the features of his face.

_Something’s upset him._

Jaw set, she pushed herself wordlessly from the table and then stalked towards the doorway, Jon just at her heels. They hurried through the hallways, and when they were out of clear earshot from the hall, Ygritte whirled on him.

“Look, I don’t know what yer on about,” she yelled, “but this is the first time—the first time, Jon, that—“

“Ygritte—”

“And ya’ve no right ta—“

“Would you please just listen?” Jon cried—his voice a hoarse half-snarl. And slightly taken aback, Ygritte shut her mouth, her brow furrowing as Jon ran a hand bitterly across his mouth. He met her gaze, his temper visibly deflating. “Ygritte, it’s—Mance is dead.”

Ygritte’s throat tightened, her mouth going dry.

_No._

“Wha’?” she raised a hand to her mouth.

“I just got a letter from Benjen. Ygritte, the Walkers were waiting at Hardhome. Only 200 Free Folk made it back. And Mance—“ Jon exhaled throatily, putting his hands on her shoulders. But as she struggled to process the news, she struggled in his hold. And so he let go, shaking his head. “He fought and he fell.” Jon’s voice was hollow and somber—exhausted. “I’m sorry.”

Ygritte’s heart thrummed, her eyes prickling with tears as she swallowed deeply. “And Tor—“ her words caught, the tears beginning to flow. “And Tormund?”

“He’s alright—he’s with my uncle back at Castle Black.”

Ygritte gasped then with relief, sobbing into the cup of her palm as she leaned forward, finally allowing Jon’s embrace. He held her tightly, whispering words of comfort into her ear as she wept for Mance; for her friend.

_For her King._

But Ygritte’s tears buckled quickly into a swell more nebulous; driven further by the misguided anger she’d had towards Jon, the loneliness she’d felt these past weeks, the pregnancy, and all the loss that seemed to follow her.

Her people were broken—scattered. They’d lost their home and now they’d lost their leader. Ygritte sobbed harder, her tears staining the thin of Jon’s tunic as he clutched her tighter. And in this moment, more than ever before, all Ygritte wanted was to go home.

_Back to the north—the true north._

Sniffing, she rubbed the turn of her nose against Jon’s shoulder, pulling back to look him straight on—her eyes red and puffy. And under the heat of her gaze, Jon grimaced weakly—comfortingly and sorrowfully—as he rubbed the pad of his thumb along the rose of her cheek, drying her tears with a few fumbling swipes.

Ygritte’s head was fuzzy from both the drink and the crying, and right now, she felt more vulnerable than she had in a long time. “Jon, I‘m sorry,” she croaked, her shoulders drooping.

Brows stitching together, he shook his head in confusion.

“I shouldn’t ‘ave told you off back there, I didn’t—it’s just tha’—“

“Hush now, it’s al—“

“No, Jon, I need to say this.” Ygritte reached out, holding him firm, gripping the sides of his arms tighter, his muscle taut beneath her fingers. And her words tumbled out of her then—the wine tasting bitter on her tongue. “It’s just that—Jon you’re gone all hours o’ the day and I’ve not…” her next words came out in a whisper. “I’ve missed you, Jon Snow—I can’t do this alone,” she finished, her voice cracking.

And Jon pushed his lips to hers so quickly, she startled, panting as he angled her face to his and broke away. He nestled into the crook of her neck then, kissing the trough of her jaw as his curls brushed the side of her cheek, his touch driven by the passion of necessity. “You’re not alone—I’m right here,” he breathed, dropping a hand to the shape of her swollen belly and skating his fingers lightly along its slope. “Right here.”


	60. LX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really edited this, but I figure I'd go ahead and nervously post it because I'm trying not to sit on these chapters too long. Plus, I have the flu and I've got plans to get drunk (alcohol is curative, right?) and play charades for the rest of the night. \m/

**Jon:**

They burst through the final wisps of cloud, barreling through the flat of its crest and once more into open sky. The air was cold and thin at this height; Jon’s knuckles chapped red as his breathing grew increasingly more laborious. He’d not gone this high before, but every part of him itched to fly higher, chasing the altitude’s chill, which so reminded him of home.

Jon let out an excited whoop, blinking back the heavy droplets caught in the thick of his lashes as the cold air whipped sharply through his lungs; he hugged his knees tighter (the saddle’s leather groaning and sliding with the pressure). Rhaegal picked up speed then, surging through the sky as the sun shone stingingly above them—its rays blinding but its heat elusive all the same. The force of the wind had long ago unsynched the tie in Jon’s hair, and now, its sodden strands lashed violently about his face; his tunic clinging damply to the marble of his chest.

A week had passed since Jon had first ridden and each day, he was growing more comfortable. Man and dragon were fast becoming close—the pair growing mutually more receptive to the other’s slightest shift, lowest murmur, or softest touch. And all the while, Jon was making quick work of mastering his commands, learning their proper pronunciation and execution with an urgent studiousness that he had not seen in himself since he was but a young boy, eager to outdo Robb in one of Maester Luwin’s afternoon lessons. But that had been before Jon had truly understood what it meant to be a bastard, before he understood that a bastard carries no honor, holds no land, and boasts no titles. And so as he grew older, his studies lost what little fervor they once had, with Jon redirecting his focus instead towards strength and resilience in the training yard. Jaw set, it’s there that he practiced the strokes he would eventually repeat in Castle Black’s courtyard, gone from Winterfell, but carrying the weight of his lowborn status—of his father’s mistake—even still.

Rhaegal moved swiftly through the air, punching forward on the beat of leather wings; coasting on the glide of their stretch as he and Jon soared above the world below. The dragon cried out, his screech echoing and rolling as he plummeted through the air; diving suddenly.

Jon’s stomach dropped, lurching into the base of his throat. He gripped the saddle’s bronze handholds tighter, his knuckles whiting as he struggled to hold on—as the world raced past him, off-kilter.

Focusing, Jon caught site of an eagle fluttering helplessly in front, just in time to see Rhaegal erupt a plume of thick fire from the back his throat, crisping the bird mid-flight and plucking its scorched carcass from the air before righting himself.

Evened out, Jon’s knees tingled weightlessly, and he settled back into the saddle with a churning discomfort brought on by the weight of excitement.

For his part, Rhaegal seemed pleased with himself, almost amused at the ferocity of the hunt.

And it struck Jon then just how different the dragon was from his direwolf. For despite Ghost’s vicious streak of protectiveness, Ghost was otherwise rather subdued in character. And for all that Ghost was steady and silent—steadfast and strong, Rhaegal was the opposite.

The dragon was fury and vigor, bold and looming—and if it could be said that Ghost was ice, then surely Rhaegal was by juxtaposition (if not by nature itself), fire.

_So what did that make Jon Snow?_

Half-wolf himself, Jon’s reticence and observant nature—his loyalty and stubborn resolution—were all traits that marked him as a young man raised by the late Lord Stark. But, Jon’s characteristic impulsivity and temper, always scraping just at the surface of his composure, existed as truths equal to those of his quiet honor, permeating the reserved strength which so defined the Starks.

And riding atop the dragon now, its very personality stirred something in Jon, awakening something primal. It scared him a bit; this brewing thrum of energy and anger deep inside him. And Jon only hoped he could use it when the time comes—channel this rage effectively and purposefully.

_For he was, after all, half-dragon._

He and Rhaegal continued flying for some time, climbing through the clouds; looking out across the sparkling waters of the bay.

Eventually, Jon took a deep breath, preparing to guide Rhaegal back towards the city’s center, but all of the sudden, something strange happened.

Jon’s vision blurred, his sense of self slipping away, taking its shelter elsewhere.

He felt then the stretch of a massive ribcage, barreling deep inside him—felt the abrupt weight of a thousand plated scales across his skin. His vision was different—sharper and focused through an overstimulating haze of reds and yellows. His chest felt warm, as though harboring a brewing energy trapped inside his core.

Jon faltered, stammering in the air before fully submitting to the moment’s reality—pushing the boundaries of his awareness and consciously taking control of the beast he now cohabited.

Heady with the sensation’s novelty, he beat his wings—wide and sweeping—and turned back towards Meereen’s pyramid with a flick of his long, spiked tail.

But as he moved, guiding with deliberation, a tension was building quickly—seeming to come as much from the inside of him as it did from the outside, crushing and pulsing around him like a vice.

And then, just as quickly as the episode came on, Jon was once again back in his own body.

_But something was wrong._

He was tumbling through the air; his body twisting and writhing, his legs snapping—pliant to the grab of gravity’s snatching winds as he plummeted to the earth below.

Understanding rushed frighteningly through him: from inside Rhaegal his human body must have gone limp, his hands relaxing their hold and his body slumping, slipping from the saddle.

Jon cried out, twisting with purpose to look above him, haltingly relieved by the sight of the green dragon barreling furiously towards him.

He reached out just as Rhaegal swooped underneath, grabbing hold of the saddle’s handles and clamoring to slide a boot into the grip of one of the stirrups as he continued to fall. And finally, barely secure, Jon folded his knee, dipping to the side and resting its cap in the saddle’s trough, quickly stuffing his other foot in the remaining, empty stirrup.

Jon righted himself then, his heart hammering as he settled.

***

**Jon:**

When Jon and Rhaegal made it back to the training pits, Daenerys and Drogon had themselves only just returned from their morning exercise.

Upon landing, Jon dismounted quickly, walking quickly over to Tyrion, who sat with Ygritte beneath the shade of a small partition, a chalice in hand and laughter on his lips.

“You know,” Tyrion started, the lilt of his voice carrying across the stadium. ”I once walked into a brothel with a jackass and a honeycomb. And when—“

Finally reaching the overhang, Jon cut the story off. “Lord Tyrion—“

Tyrion turned to Jon, huffing with annoyance at the interruption. “Jon, How many times must I tell you to call me—“ he began exhaustedly.

But Jon didn’t stop himself, impatient to divulge the news he himself was still processing. “I entered his mind.”

Tyrion shook his head with a lack of understanding. “Whose mind?”

“Rhaegal’s; we were flying and—it was only a moment—I didn’t do it on purpose, but—“

“Hold on.” Tyrion said, holding his hands up. Ygritte had jumped to a stand beside him, her face stricken with a look of both concern and hesitant excitement. “What are you saying?”

“I warged—I warged into Rhaegal.”

The group fell silent for a moment before Tyrion spoke again. “You warged…? Like in the tales of old?”

“They’re more than jus’ tales,” Ygritte said steadily. “Jon ‘imself did it with Ghost once—I saw.”

“And now you’ve done it with a dragon?” Tyrion said slowly, his voice scratchy with dawning awe and curiosity. “Can you control it?”

“No,” Jon shook his head. “It was an accident, and it was over quickly.” He sighed. “I used to have dreams where I was in Ghost, but only once did I warg while I was awake—it felt like this, but Rhaegal was,” Jon struggled for the words, “he was stronger—more intense.”

“Curious,” Tyrion mused, scratching his chin as he thought. “I wonder—could you learn to control this power, could you harness it?”

“I don’t know.”

“It takes time and practice,” Ygritte said. “I remember Orell when we were children, he used to sit ‘imself on a rock all day and stare at the birds. It was awhile before he could do it, but eventually he could _do it_.”

“A dragon’s not a bird,” Jon said solemnly.

“And yer not Orell,” Ygritte shot back, defiance glinting in the blue of her eyes. Jon smiled softly, dropping his head.

Tyrion began to pace then, thinking out loud. “If only Meereen had a proper library, then I could—“

A thought suddenly came to Jon. “I have a friend at The Citadel.”

The Lannister stopped in his tracks, whipping around to face Jon with such eager agitation, Jon almost took a step back. “You do?”

“Aye. His name is Samwell Tarly… He’s the most studious person I’ve ever met—he reads as much as you do.”

Tyrion tapped his fingers along his leg. “I have many questions—ones that will require much research and copious details… I’ll write him, that is unless you object.”

“By all means,” Jon shook his head. “I'm sure he’ll be happy to help.”

The three parted ways then, Tyrion rushing off to pen the letter; Jon and Ygritte heading out, hand-in-hand for their afternoon stroll.

And when Jon lay in bed that night, Ygritte snoring softly to his side, his mind couldn’t help but race with excitement. He turned on his side, running a hand absentmindedly down the contour of Ygritte’s body—the weave of her nightgown catching in the roughness of his palm as the moon hung heavy in the air.

He thought of Rhaegal, wondering idly if any Targaryen had before breeched the mind of a dragon. He thought of the dragon riders of old and of the skulls lining the throne room in King’s Landing. And from there, Jon soon found himself thinking of his wild little sister, and just how much she would love all this.

_Wherever she was._

He caught hold of a memory.

He was two-and-ten then, the soft of Meereen’s pillow transforming quickly into the slick of mud against his cheek.

The summer rains had washed through all morning, muddying the dirt of Winterfell’s courtyard. Jon himself was on the way back from sparring practice, only to come across Arya splashing through the puddles, the edges of her dress greyed and sopping-wet.

“Your mother won’t be pleased,” he said, a drawling smile tugging at his lips as his heart warmed, like always, at her utterly heedless antics.

“I don’t care,” she said, one eyebrow cocked tenaciously, as though challenging Jon to say otherwise. 

He merely laughed—a short husky sound evoked by the warmth of his amusement.

Eyeing him, Arya crouched down then, collecting a handful of mud with a sly grin on her face. And without pause, she squealed, lobbing the muck at Jon and hitting him squarely in the chest.

He stepped back, regarding the mess with an annoyance that gave way almost instantly to the playfulness only Arya managed to stir in him. Laughing then, Jon leaned his sword against the stones of the castle wall, and lurched forward, scooping up a glob of mud and throwing it Arya’s way.

The muck splattered all along her shoulders and neck, and soon, the pair of them were engaged in all out warfare.

After several minutes of darting and slipping, Arya had managed to wrap her skinny arms around his ankles, wrestling him to the ground and sitting quickly atop his back—her body bouncing up and down with the force of his laughter.

Septa Mordane’s voice rang through the air suddenly. “What in the name of The Seven?” she cried, shrill and angry.

Jon rolled over, shooting up so fast, he sent Arya careening into the mud. Wincing, he offered her his hand wordlessly, pulling her to her feet next to him.

Arya rolled her eyes and huffed, brushing the mud from her face as she steadied her balance, fists clenched angrily at her side. She stomped forward to face the septa. “Jon doesn’t follow The Seven—he follows the Old Gods, like father, and like _me._ ” She jut out her chest then, the entire display one of proud solidarity for the boy she called _brother_.

And though his heart was swelling, if he were within striking distance, Jon might have given Arya a firm nudge with his elbow, urging her silence. But of course, that was never her way, and while he himself had been trained to hold his tongue, swallowing the sting of constant disapproval and dismissal, Arya would never back down from what she believed. Brazen and straightforward, his little sister was fiercer than anyone he'd ever met.

_Much the way Ned Stark had talked of Lyanna._

The septa looked stricken, her face pursed in silent horror before turning to Jon with such a look of disgust, he dropped his eyes, toeing his boots through the muck as his jaw tightened angrily. “You should know better,” she said. Her tone was cold—her eyes colder. “Rest assured, I will be telling Lady Stark of this incident.”

The septa grabbed Arya’s arm then, yanking her away. And though Jon only caught the beginning of her lecture, it was enough to make his mouth dry and his stomach lurch with sickening shame. “Highborn children shouldn’t play with bastards, it isn’t proper. If your mother—“

But watching Arya wrench her elbow from the woman’s grasp put the smile back on his face.

And now, in Meereen, Jon Snow turned in his sheets, his little sister in mind—the sister who was black of hair like him, and who never made him feel anything but deserving of all the love that she displayed. He fell asleep with a faint grin tweaking at the full of his lips.


	61. LXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so short and achingly fluffy, but I couldn't help myself.

**Ygritte:**

Ygritte was pulled slowly from her sleep, hovering on the edge of lucidity for a moment or two before turning over and burying her face in the pillow, the sheets whispering as her legs shifted in place.

She was tumbling back into her dreams then, when a quiver in her stomach sent her eyes snapping open.

Ygritte laid in bed, still; her heartbeat murmuring in her ears—the night utterly deafening in its silence. Jon moaned softly next to her, a huff of breath slipping from the part of his lips.

Then, just as abruptly as the time before, the sensation came again—a sturdy flick coming from the inside of her belly. It tapped once, twice. 

And suddenly, understanding dawned on Ygritte, her heart twisting. She propped herself up on an elbow with a hiss of excitement, leaning over to shake Jon from his slumber.

“Jon,” she breathed, jostling the cap of his shoulder roughly.

He faltered awake in response, his dark eyes staggering as they searched. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Wordlessly, she grabbed his hand, pulling it to the globe of her stomach and pressing his palm along its shape. She laced her fingers over his, the grace of their thin bones resting softly on the knots of his knuckles.

The feeling came again—a kick, sharp and short.

Startled, Jon’s brow furrowed, his eyes darkening as he looked to Ygritte for answers.

She smiled, a generous stretch of her lips accompanying the whisper she gave. “The babe's kickin’.”

Any harshness in Jon’s expression dissolved instantly, his mouth falling open and his brows shooting up in warm surprise. He flexed his hand wider, stretching his fingers as far as they would go. 

Another kick came and Jon looked again to Ygritte, his face flushing as his grin widened. “It doesn’t hurt?” he ensured, his voice wavering with the slight of his concern.

She shook her head. “Jus’ tickles is all.”

Jon raised himself gently from the mattress then, crawling over and dropping the shell of his ear just above Ygritte’s navel—the curls of his hair brushing lightly against her skin.

“Hello,” he said faintly, the words whispering into her stomach—the plump of his lips shaping into the softest circle as he caressed her belly's form, his eyes dragging along its swell. “Can you hear me?”

“I don’t think it knows the common tongue yet, Jon Snow,” Ygritte teased tenderly, smiling at the look of embarrassment, which crossed Jon’s face then—as though she’d interrupted a moment so intimate, he’d not thought to share it even with her. 

She sat up slowly, Jon moving with her as he dropped his hand.

He draped an arm around her shoulders then, and pulled her flush against his body—settling her just between his legs. Ygritte fell into the embrace, dropping her head to his shoulder and running her fingers along the flex of his arms.

“I never thought I’d be a father,” Jon said slowly. “And I never wanted any part in bringing another bastard into this world.”

Ygritte rolled her eyes, “Jon—“

“I don’t care about that now—not really,” he assured quickly, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Did I ever tell you about Ros?”

“Ros?”

“A whore—a whore with red hair like yours.”

Ygritte turned in his arms, eyeing him with brewing skepticism. “And ‘ow did ya know this whore with red hair like mine?”

“I met her in a brothel in Wintertown,” Jon answered, his eyes casting down above a canted smile.

“A brothel?” Ygritte laughed, annoyance sharpening the tone. “You told me you were a maid!”

“I was,” he insisted. “In the brothel I just sat there—watched as she took off her clothes. But when she went to touch me, I couldn’t do it—I was so afraid I’d get her pregnant...”

“And…?”

“And nothing… I left. I was well into my cups and I was angry. I finished myself off in an alley.” Jon paused, shaking his head. “It’s not my proudest moment.”

Ygritte laughed, grinning cockily. “Well, ya spilled inside me the first time—in that cave. All tremblin’ and loud. D’ya remember?” she grinned, resting her head again against his chest.

She could feel him nodding, an exhausted chuckle escaping him. “Aye.” He kissed the top of her head. “I can’t help myself with you—you’re—“

“Irresistible?” Ygritte offered up.

“I was going to say relentless.”

She shoved him, smiling at the gentleness of his resulting laughter.

“But you’re irresistible too,” he acquiesced. “Beautiful, and wild, and completely irresistible.”


	62. LXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was really tough for me to slog through--but I just kept picturing Jon tired/brooding/yelling in the tent before the Battle of the Bastards and wanted to channel some of that stressed exhaustion here, as certain truths are revealed. Hope it works.

**Jon:**

Jon walked towards the Queen’s solar, his footfalls echoing off the stones of the corridor; cutting through the silence of the night. Upon reaching his destination, Jon opened the door with ease and stepped across its threshold.

Daenerys was seated at the table; the edges of moonlight caught in the trim her hair. She smiled, saying nothing—her quiet made up for by the chorus of Meereen’s insects sounding loudly from the open windows.

“Your Grace,” Jon nodded, smiling with soft deference as he padded towards his usual chair. But just before he took his seat, the door behind him opened once more; the Queen’s bald-headed advisor emerging from behind it.

Jon cocked a brow in surprise, but quickly recovering, he gave his greetings with all the usual politeness to be expected. “Lord Varys.”

“I’ve invited Lord Varys to join us this evening,” Daenerys clipped, noting the falter in Jon’s expression. For, since arriving in Meereen, no one else had yet been privy to these nightly meetings, and the man’s arrival made Jon’s stomach churn uneasily.

Offering up an obsequious smile, Varys approached, the length of his floral cloak sweeping across the floor with a sound as slithering as Jon’s mistrustful impressions of the man himself. 

For, following their initial meeting in Meereen’s throne room several weeks past, Jon and Varys had had minimal interaction—Jon, for his part, doing his best to steer clear of the man entirely. Though, whether it was Varys’ simpering pretense of humility, his decision to withhold Ned Stark’s final letter from Howland Reed, or the way that he looked at Jon (the corners of his mouth turning with an air of pity steeped in pretention), that embittered Jon the most, he couldn’t say.

Further distressing was the way in which Jon always found himself unnerved (and often tongue-tied) by the Spymaster—who spoke in riddles and twists that Jon had little interest in deciphering. 

As Varys sat down at the table, Jon tried to cough discretely, the Lord’s perfume tickling at the back of his throat and clouding his head uncomfortably.

“You don’t approve?” The Queen drawled amusedly.

It took Jon a moment to realize her words, shifting his glower into the pale vestiges of a sincere smile. “No—I—I’m just tired is all,” he excused weakly. 

_It wasn’t exactly a lie._

Their conversation started off as strained at best, each one of them going through the details of their day—Jon, for his part, doing his best to feign much interest in the discussed political nuance concerning Essos.

_These things mattered little now._

But eventually, Daenerys spoke again. “Lord Varys has recently shared some information with me—information relevant to your interests, Jon Snow.”

Jon perked up, rolling his shoulders and turning to Varys in anticipation. His stomach fluttered anxiously.

Varys took a shallow breath and began. “By now someone must have told you that I served as Spymaster to King Aerys.”

“Lord Tyrion mentioned it, yes,” Jon nodded, the gesture one of slow, restrained anger, as the mere mention of the former King sent Jon’s blood boiling. For, while he might now be a Targaryen by blood, Jon was still thoroughly Stark in his allegiances—all the anger and resentment he’d harbored for the Mad King as a boy resurfacing and quickly redirecting towards the Spymaster seated before him.

Varys continued, seemingly indifferent to Jon’s brewing tension. “When the King had your Uncle Brandon arrested, the council urged him to show leniency—to show reason—“

“Well you mustn't have done a very good job,” Jon cracked before he could stop himself, jutting his chin up as his mouth tugged itself into a sardonic grin—his tone one of acrimony. But at Varys’ resulting stare, Jon lowered his head, swallowing his bitterness and folding his hands along the table’s surface—his fingers clenched tightly around each other. Jon took a short, deep breath then, slightly embarrassed.

Varys eyed Jon passively, tutting the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “We did what we could, Jon Snow. But regardless, the King ignored our council and had your grandfather burned… Your uncle strangled.”

Jon’s jaw clenched, his lips pressing together in a terse line.

“Does this have a point, Lord Varys?” The Queen asked, her tone hovering on the edges of disciplinary as she noted Jon’s reaction to the gruesome detail.

“I find that all things often do, Your Grace.” Varys answered, before turning his attentions back to Jon. “How much do you know of Lyanna Stark?”

Jon’s brows raised in surprise. “My mother? My f— _Lord Stark_ —never much talked about her.” When Varys didn’t fill in the gaps, Jon continued, rattling off what little he did know. “I know she liked horses—I know she was stubborn and brave…” He looked up, holding Vary’s gaze with hardened boldness. “And I know she was kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Varys remained silent before speaking again. “So the story was told.”

“ _So the story was told_?” Jon repeated; his eyes slitting as he ground his teeth. “She was betrothed to Robert Baratheon—she didn’t want—“

“And you presume to know what she wanted?” Varys’ voice was smooth, cool and collected in his confrontation—his brows raised loftily.

“She—“ Jon faltered, rubbing a hand along the thick of his beard, frustrated at his loss for words.

“I knew your father well.” Varys straightened his back, the collar of his lilac robe digging into the plump of his neck—leaving soft, trailing red lines against the pale of his skin. “Rhaegar was passionate above all else—bold and poetic—truly a man of the people.”

“I’ve heard it before,” Jon spat sourly, his temper flaring. “But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” Jon scooted his chair back then, standing up and turning away from the table for a moment. But he quickly whirled back around, his eyes ablaze as his next words tumbled out of his mouth—words spurred on by the heat of anger, but capturing the rawness of a shame that Jon had been harboring for months now. “He was a raper—I can’t forgive that…” Jon dropped his gaze then, his voice growing weary. “And I won’t ever be proud to call myself his son,” he finished with an air of firm resolve.

The insects roared outside, their songs almost as deafening as the silence in the solar.

Varys took a deep breath after a time, his expression steady and genuine. “Rhaegar Targaryen wasn’t a raper,” he said softly. “Lyanna loved him, Jon Snow—truly she did.”

Jon’s breath caught. He looked Varys up and down, his eyes dark and beseeching as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

_Could it be true?_

“She told you that?” Jon asked, his voice coming out as a chuffed, hesitant whisper.

Varys nodded with a small smile. “She did—As appointed Spymaster, I helped ensure Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna’s safe passage to the Tower of Joy. I spoke with her only the once, under the cover of darkness, but she expressed as much… It’s a rare thing to find in this world—two people who love each other so fiercely.”

The disclosure hit Jon like a kick to the gut—Varys’ words offering him a reprieve from his grief. For, at their core, the words offered Jon the chance to be proud of the man he now called father—of the Targaryen Prince he’d never met, the man who moved kingdoms and waged war for the woman Jon now called mother.

But all the same, Jon merely paused, licking his lips and wringing his hands together before speaking again, his shoulders drooping tiredly. “That’s a nice story,” he said dryly, his denial angry and comfortable.

“You don’t believe me?” Varys spoke with little shock, his brow hardly tweaking.

“Well how can I?” Jon asked then, his voice ragged and strained. “I don’t know you—And I didn’t know them.” He stalked several paces away, shaking his head tiredly. “Anyway… It doesn’t matter.”

Varys clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “On the contrary, Jon Snow—I think it matters a great deal to you.” When Jon didn’t answer, Varys continued. “Tell me—what would I have to gain from spinning this tale?”

“I—“ Jon stuttered, his stomach churning overwhelmingly as he scrambled to respond. For, there was nothing Jon would like more than to accept the truth behind Varys’ words—to truly believe that his father was a man worth respecting, and his own blood nothing but pure in the heat of its creation.

Varys stood up suddenly, walking to Jon and moving to stand beside him in a gesture of refined support. “I have no reason to deceive you, Jon Snow. Lyanna loved Rhaegar—they all did—but she was the bride he chose.” His words glided from his mouth with a comforting sincerity Jon hadn’t before heard from the man. And in response, Jon felt the edges of relief beginning to claw at his awareness—the knot in his stomach untying as he pictured his parents—his mother wrapped in his father’s arms, black curls entwined with silver.

_They fell in love and lived their truth… They fell in love and a war broke out—a kingdom fell._

Jon looked to his boots as his mood began to cloud once more.

“If what you’re saying is true,” Jon said slowly, raising his head to look Varys in the eye; his face pale and stricken, “then they were selfish.”

“They were in love,” Varys answered—his expression blanching ever so briefly in surprise.

Jon's temper finally broke in earnest then—rage at the evening, rage at all the secrets and continuous revelations, rage at the Spymaster’s riddling demeanor, and rage at the carelessness of his parents’ actions, all exploding to the surface. “That’s not an excuse!” Jon half-shouted, his brows merged together with pained fury; the pulse in his temples snapping tightly in time with his heightened heartbeat. “Everything that happened—Robert’s Rebellion, Ned Stark’s Death, The War of Five Kings—none of it would have happened otherwise.” His voice cracked. “It’s their fault… All these horrors that have happened since… It’s their fault.”

The room went quiet for a moment—Jon’s words resonating throughout the solar. Varys sat indifferently, while The Queen took a slow drag from her wine. For his part, Jon stood there trying to collect himself, becoming painfully aware of the impulsive display of emotion he was putting on.

Grimacing sympathetically, the Spymaster cocked his head then, the gesture one of soft dismissal. “All actions have consequences, yes. But if your parents hadn’t acted as they did, rest assured there would be consequences of equal horrors to fill their place.” 

Jon sighed then, his shoulders slumping and his silence serving as reluctant concession.

“If Rhaegar and Lyanna, hadn’t fallen in love,” Varys continued. “Where would you be, Jon Snow?” He looked to Jon pointedly, his expression cool despite the warmth of his words. “And unless I’m wrong, did you not abandon your Night’s Watch post for a woman with whom you fell in love?”

Jon took a deep breath, his eyes shutting as his stomach dropped with shame at Varys’ last words. Jon remained quiet for a minute before turning to Daenerys, his energy for argument entirely drained. “Your Grace,” Jon struggled to keep his voice steady. “If I might be excused—“

“Of course,” The Queen moved her hand in a short, clipped wave, her expression one of pity.

Jon swallowed the ache in his throat and stalked for the door, his head pounding and his footsteps sounding as heavy as his mood.

***

**Ygritte:**

“Oh you’re back early,” Ygritte grinned, walking towards Jon as he shut the door softly behind him. The stones were cool against her bare feet, the edges of her shift caught ever so slightly in the night’s breeze. She took stock of Jon’s face—its lines exhausted and pale. “Ya look like life’s got you by the balls, Jon Snow,” she teased, sliding against him and flattening her palms to his chest.

The corner of Jon’s mouth kicked up into a half-hearted smile, but he offered nothing more than a meek grunt in response.

“What is it?” Ygritte asked, her brows pulling together as she looked to Jon with concern. “Did The Queen say something?”

Jon shook his head. “No.” He gently removed Ygritte’s hands from his front and walked slowly to the bed, dropping to the mattress with a weary groan. He then began to unlace his boots—his expression sour.

Ygritte glided over, settling next to him. “Ya’ve got that look about ya, Jon Snow.”

Jon’s fingers halted, shaking lightly as they dropped the laces. He straightened his back then, turning to face her as he tucked one leg beneath his weight with a sigh—his eyes dark and serious. “Lord Varys stopped by this evening... He spoke of my parents.”

“What of them?”

Jon let out a long exhale, his ribcage pulling taut beneath his tunic before deflating rapidly. Dropping his head, he began to pick at a hole in his breeches before speaking. “He said they were in love.”

Ygritte had to cut herself off mid-laugh, the shock in her voice not entirely dissipated by the time she spoke. “And why ‘as that got you so glum?”

“ _Because_ , Ygritte,” Jon said, his tone strained and tired. “I can’t help but think that if they hadn’t fallen in love, the world would be a better place—there would have been no rebellion, and thousands of men would still have their lives.”

“ _And_ …?”

“ _And _… What? Ygritte—are you listening to me?” Jon’s voice cracked—hovering on the edge of a growl. “An entire war could have been avoided!”__

__“Aye, I’m listenin’! Jon—Gods—but what’s happened in the past is the past.” She shook her head resolvedly. “It’s over, and it don’t do anyone any good to go on frettin’ about it.” Ygritte took Jon’s silence then as provocation to continue. “Plus…” she persisted slowly, “if yer father never stole yer mother, then you wouldn’t be here… And the world needs you, Jon Snow... Can ya stop and think for a second that maybe you’re the answer to yer parents’ mistakes?”_ _

__“But… I’m not—“ Jon struggled, his words caught in his throat. And when he spoke again, he gestured to the room around them, making clear he spoke of more than just his parents._ _

_He now spoke of Meereen and the dragons and the flamin’ sword…_

__“I didn’t ask for any of this—I didn’t want it… I don’t know what I’m doing.” Jon’s words hung raw and heavy in the bedchambers, the admission one of exhausted capitulation to all that life has thrown at him._ _

__“I know ya didn’t ask for this—but this’s happening all the same.” Ygritte’s voice was soft and soothing. “Ya came back from the dead, Jon. That’s no small thing. And now, all ya can do is keep goin’ on. There’s a fight to come—and Lyanna and Rhaegar or not, the Others would still be marchin’… The people need a man they can rally behind—someone worth following. You are that man, Jon Snow.”_ _

__“I—“_ _

“You _are_.” Ygritte pressed, stopping the humble speech Jon was no doubt about to give. “Jon, you’re not a king, and you’re not the greatest warrior who ever lived. You’re not a big man and you’re not—“

__Much to Ygritte’s relief, Jon smiled tiredly. “Is this supposed to be making me feel better?”_ _

“Hush, just listen—when that red witch brought ya back, you said she spoke of promised princes and fate and fire—“

“Aye, but—“

“Would you _please_ shut up? Jon—all that’s happened before is already done, and all ya can do now is go on and make more things happen— _good things_ … Things that’ll make our babe proud to call you their father."

__They sat there in a weighty silence for several minutes. Jon hunched over on his knees, his eyes trailing along the lines of the floor as he worried his lip, deep in thought. But after a time, he smirked, looking to Ygritte as his face clouded sheepishly. “I think the Queen expected I’d handle this better.”_ _

__Ygritte scoffed. “Well that’s ‘cause she don’t know you at all.”_ _

__Jon swallowed a shallow smile._ _

__“You’re a brooder, Jon Snow—true as they come. They could ‘ave told ya all the Others ‘ave up and died and ya’d still find somethin’ in there ta sulk about.” She reached out gently, taking the swell of his shoulder in hand as she slid to the floor, elbowing his knees out of the way and settling between his legs. “But it’s alright—here, let me give ya one less thing ta sulk over,” Ygritte said with a wink, trailing her fingers along the insides of his thighs._ _


	63. LXIII

**Jon:**

_Dear Jon,_

 _Rickon has come home. He returned just this morning, in the company of wildling named Osha; a woman who has acted his caretaker since their escape. They had been living in Skagos; isolated for some time, but our littlest brother is finally home. Jon, you should see him; he has grown strong and tall._  
_Winterfell’s army is growing strong too, and Rickon’s return has only made us stronger. I have begun sending men north, to join Benjen at the Wall._  
_The war is coming, Jon. We will need you soon._

_Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell  
Queen in the North _

Jon rolled up the parchment and stuffed it in his pocket, a slow smile stretching across his face. For, despite the growing threat of winter:

_Rickon was safe._

Leaning against the shallow stone wall, Jon looked out over the bay to where the moonlight was scintillating along the water—its surface calm and gleaming in the darkness. The night was wet and warm, an enveloping heat thrumming from the waves and causing Jon’s skin to stick as he exhaled with quiet relief.

By this point, he’d reread the letter six times, only to find himself craving more and more information about the brother he’d once known.

_Strong and tall was all Sansa had said. But what color was Rickon’s hair now? And did he look more like Ned or Catelyn? Was he still the wild boy they’d once known, or had his spirit dulled?_

Jon’s thoughts raced, his lips as dry as the rare breeze rolling in from Meereen’s surrounding hills, cutting through the balminess of the air.

_Would Rickon remember Jon? Would Rickon even remember his trueborn brothers and sisters—his mother and father?_

Jon’s stomach twisted, as he thought on his own situation—a man grown with no knowledge of who his parents truly were.

Since his meeting with The Queen and Varys two nights prior, Jon had calmed down slightly, and following his initial anger over his parents’ follies, Jon found himself wholeheartedly eased over the reported softness of his father’s disposition; over the man’s reputedly unflinching honor.

It felt strange now, to think of Rhaegar Targaryen favorably—a man who had been seen a villain in childhood, from when Jon and Robb (always at Sansa’s heated demands) had taken turns acting as dastardly prince and noble knight in the games of their youth. Of course, that had been before Sansa thought it improper to play with Winterfell’s bastard, and before Jon himself had chosen to spend his time sulking in the corners instead, out of sight and out of mind.

_But surely now, things had changed._

Sighing softly, Jon pushed himself from the wall and wove his way back towards the pyramid, walking through the cobblestone streets with his hands toying restlessly at the hem of his tunic as he tried to conjure up a guess at what Rickon might look like now—his mental image of the boy still as faded as it had been since returning from the dead.

Eventually, Jon made it to the Great Hall’s entrance, stopping outside its open doors as he heard the unmistakable ringing of laughter from inside the room. And just crossing the doorway, Jon saw Tyrion and Varys seated at one of the long, black tables—their demeanor light. For his part, Tyrion was well into his cups—a half-full flagon resting in front of him, its amber liquid quivering in the candlelight.

“Snow!” Tyrion cried, hoisting his glass to match the greeting of his slanted grin; his cheeks rosy from drink.

“Lannister,” Jon fired back, a smile on his lips. Jon turned to the Spymaster then, nodding his head cordially. “Lord Varys.”

Varys leaned forward in his chair in response; his eyes clear in their goodwill as he settled the tips of his fingers together on the table. When he spoke, he did so with calculated softness. “I must apologize for the other night, Jon Snow—it was never my intention to upset.”

Taken aback by the man’s sensitivity, Jon rubbed the back of his head self-consciously, as he’d done many times as a boy in Winterfell. “Think nothing of it, My Lord,” he answered graciously. And then, in a gesture of consolidation, Jon took a deep breath, shrugging his shoulders as he grinned lopsidedly at his own expense. “Ygritte says I sulk too much anyway.”

“Well, she can’t have been the first person to tell you that,” Tyrion quipped.

Jon’s smile cracked into a brief laugh. “No, she’s not.” And then, at Tyrion’s open palm motioning to the empty bench, Jon sat down, his bones creaking wearily as he settled himself against the wooden seat.

“She’s a feisty one.” Tyrion said, pouring another glass of ale as he smirked.

“Aye,” Jon nodded, sipping from the chalice pushed in front of him. “That’s one word for it,” he said with dry affection.

“Yes,” Tyrion laughed. “A true wildling. And how! She’s gone and fucked your celibacy to a distant memory, Jon Snow!”

Jon drained his glass and huffed a chuckle. “Aye, that and more,” he mumbled, pouring himself another cup, his cheeks warming.

Tyrion let out a brisk laugh. “I knew you were as craven as they say, bastard!”

“Still not as craven as you, dwarf.” Jon answered quickly, noting the smug grin that flickered across Varys’ face at the retort.

Tyrion smiled, but his brow furrowed all the same—his face darkening sadly. “Yes… Well, it might surprise you to hear that I’ve rather lost my flair for fucking these days.”

Jon laughed unbelievingly. “What? Have you forgotten how to do it?” He teased, enjoying the good-naturedness of their back-and-forths and realizing that it had been quite awhile since he was in the sole company of men—his Night’s Watch days long behind him.

“Not quite,” Tyrion smiled half-heartedly, the edges of his eyes crinkling tiredly.

Not sure what to make of Tyrion’s words, Jon briefly chewed the inside of his cheek before emptying his cup and reaching to refill it—the silence uncomfortable.

“I killed the woman I loved,” Tyrion said gravely, twisting his glass and watching the liquid slosh with an intensity of focus Jon hadn’t yet seen.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, his brows furrowed with confused sympathy. He finished off another cup, but thought not to push—a man of few words himself; Jon thought to let Tyrion divulge any further information on his own terms, without provocation.

“She betrayed me,” Tyrion said slowly then, ringing the base of his metal goblet in small circles on the table’s surface. “And I murdered her for it.” His voice cracked. “I’m afraid you lose your interest in fucking when the woman you love dies by your own hand.”

Jon’s heart sank, an image of the possibility of another life where he had indeed left Ygritte by that pond, flashing through his mind.

_Had the Free Folk attacked the Wall, they would have died—all of them._

He could picture it now—sitting on the cold, hard ground in Castle Black’s courtyard and rocking the lifeless body of the woman he loved in his arms, his forehead pressing against the flush of her skin as he choked out tears, knowing he was complicit in her death.

His throat tight, Jon poured himself another cup, finishing it off in one swig—not wanting to dwell on this. Another glass soon followed.

_Thank the Gods it hadn’t happened that way._

***

**Ygritte:**

The door slammed loudly, jolting Ygritte into a hazy state of awakeness. She opened her eyes, her breathing heavy. The hour was late.

From the doorway, Ygritte heard shuffling and banging, and she quickly raised herself up on her elbows, watching as Jon stumbled into their chambers, unlacing his jerkin with clumsy fingers.

The boiled leather landed on the ground with a heavy smacking noise as Jon continued forth in the stupor he was currently reeling from. He staggered to the end of the bed, nudging the chamber pot in front of him with several kicks of his boot—the metal of the bowl scraping along the floor.

She watched as he fumbled his penis from his britches with a drunken grunt, swaying as he lined himself up.

_Gods, he’s in rare form tonight._

Jon’s stance wavered, his stream splashing in and out of the pot with little accuracy.

“Jon Snow!” Ygritte admonished, hissing despite the amused pull of her lips.

He looked up, his eyes half-lidded—affectionate surprise riddled on his face. “’lo—I didn’t think you’d _stillbe ‘wake._ ” He slurred.

“Aye, I wasn’t—but then you came crashin’ in like a blizzard… You pissed all over the floor.”

Jon looked down, “Oh,” he said. “ _’msorry._ ”

“Don’t be—it won’t be me that’s cleanin’ it up in the mornin’,” she smirked. “How much ‘ave you had to drink?”

“Don’t know.” He shook his cock dry, tucking himself back into his smallclothes before crawling onto the bed. “Lost count.”

And when he collapsed onto the mattress, he stilled. So Ygritte reached over and unlaced his boots for him. Jon merely watched her—his eyes glassy and his cheeks flushed.

“You look beautiful,” he croaked, his eyes raking over her nude form.

“I look like a mammoth,” Ygritte answered, rolling her own eyes as she dropped a hand to her swollen belly.

Jon shook his head in disagreement, a stilted grin on his face as he shucked off his tunic, his breeches and smallclothes quickly following. He leaned over and kissed her with a growl then—his breath sweet with the smell of ale—his touches crude and bumbling.

Ygritte endured his strokes for a time, but pulled back when it became clear that Jon’s cock, despite his heavy-handed rutting, would remain limp.

“Jon,” Ygritte laughed, equally as annoyed as amused. “Can ya even get it up, right now?”

“Er…” Jon looked between his legs to where his cock rested softly against Ygritte’s thighs—the tip pale and pink from where it poked out beneath the hug of his foreskin. It twitched half-heartedly, as though trying to prove otherwise.

“Gods, just come to sleep,” Ygritte chided warmly, pushing his shoulders away and settling in his hold as Jon fell back grudgingly.

He sighed and smoothed the tendrils of her hair gently, his voice hoarse as he spoke again. “Ygritte?”

“Aye?”

“Thank you… _Forcomin’_ all this way,” he garbled hurriedly. “ _Forstayin’_ with me. I need you… I—“

But when Jon didn’t continue, Ygritte shifted, looking back to find his eyes closed and his breathing already shallowed with sleep.

Ygritte rolled her eyes in irritation, but turned nonetheless, dropping a tender kiss to his forehead. “I need you too, ya fool.”

***

**Jon:**

“Arghhhh, seven hells,” Jon moaned, throwing the crook of his elbow over his eyes to block out the morning sun’s light. His head pounded and his mouth tasted stale. He smacked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and tried to get up, giving up when the sheets tangled in his legs and falling back onto his pillow with a groan.

Ygritte padded in from the balcony. “You were somethin’ else last night,” she called, her lips stained purple from the plum she was eating.

He maneuvered himself into a sitting position, wincing as his head throbbed—feeling as though a giant steel ball were rolling around inside his skull. “I’m sorry about that.” She moved to the end of the bed, sitting down as Jon kneaded his eyes groggily. “Robb always said I couldn’t hold my ale,” Jon grinned, tiredly. He watched Ygritte pluck a feather from their pillow before speaking again. “Rickon’s alive—he’s home. Sansa sent a letter.”

“Oh, Jon…” Ygritte smiled toothily in surprise—her eyes warm. “He’s alright?”

“Yes—Sansa said he’d been staying in Skagos. He’s safe—but I know nothing more.”

“I’m happy for ya—for yer family.”

Jon smiled.

“Is that why you were knockin’ back yer cups last night? Were you celebratin’?”

He shook his head. “No—I ran into Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys on my way back from a walk. I just got carried away is all,” Jon said, dropping his eyes as the image of Ygritte—dead in his arms—resurfaced. A shiver went down his spine.

“Well you were a right terror—rubbin’ yerself all up and down me leg and goin’ on about how ya needed me,” Ygritte laughed.

Jon shut his eyes with embarrassment, his stomach dropping despite his smile. “Well, let me make it up to you now then,” he purred insistently, sliding forward and gliding his hands along the swell of her stomach, as though cradling the growing life inside.

He shifted then, scooting back on his knees and dropping his face between her legs. He ran a hand through the thatch of downy hair, which crested her sex before lowering his lips to its apex. Jon’s kisses were soft as he trailed his fingers along the crease of her heat before ultimately replacing them with his tongue.

He licked and lapped for a time, relishing the soft moans, which escaped Ygritte’s lips, his britches tightening as his ministrations increased.

After a couple minutes, Ygritte began to buck her hips with urgency, her body spasming as she cried out huskily—her peak rolling through her as Jon employed tongue and fingers to draw out her pleasure.

And when she had come down, she practically pounced on Jon, pushing him to his back and crawling forth. His cock lay flushed and heavy, brushing against his stomach. Ygritte hummed, licking a stripe along the milky vein, which ran across the muscle of his thigh. She rubbed the heel of her hand along the underside of his member then, before wrapping her fingers around its length and jerking him off in quick, gentle tugs.

Jon swallowed heavily, his heart rate increasing as heat burst in his belly. She pumped him several times more, pausing then to rub the flat of her thumb around his cock’s seeping tip—the touch causing his mouth to fall open, his breaths coming short.

Eventually, Ygritte took his length in her mouth, her tongue caressing the spot just beneath his crown and sending Jon’s eyes rolling back.

“Ygritte,” Jon gasped. “If you keep going on like that, I’ll b-be… _Unmanned._ ”

She paused her attentions, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Isn’t that the point, Jon Snow?”

And in that moment, so taken by his desire to prolong their coupling, Jon shimmied back, reaching out and pulling her by the hips so that from below, his face could access her heat. Incidentally, the movement left Ygritte’s mouth hovering just above his groin, her hands splayed and straddling his thighs.

He pushed his tongue to her slit just as she dropped her mouth again to his eager cock. And Jon faltered then—her mouth so deliciously wet and warm he could barely think straight, let alone focus on the task at hand.

“Ygritte—“ Jon started, but Ygritte didn’t stop, instead taking him further in her mouth; closing her fingers around the base of his cock and pulling in time with the dip of her lips.

About ready to blow, Jon collected himself as best he could, driving his mouth to her core with renewed purpose and fervor—trying best he could to stave off his approaching orgasm as he built hers up.

The sensation was like nothing he’d ever felt—the decadence of tasting her in time with the slick of her tongue on his body had him teetering on his edge as he breathed Ygritte in in all her entirety, kissing and sucking as they both began to tremble in union.

_And Gods, she tastes so perfect._

Jon cried out only seconds before Ygritte, spilling into her mouth as she began to flutter against his lips—both of them doing what they could to stifle their thrashing as they rode out their orgasms.

And when all was said and done, Ygritte rolled to Jon’s side, wiping the back of her hand along her mouth and resting her head against Jon’s heaving chest.

“We should do that more often,” Jon panted, thoroughly wrung out.

“I agree, Jon Snow... I agree.”


	64. LXIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short(ish) filler piece mostly (1 bottle of wine in, I'm just gonna post this?). Two more chapters in Meereen before big things start to change.

**Jon:**

Eyes rolling in his head, Jon’s body slumped against the wall, softly stirring up a cloud of dust as his back made contact with the stones—pale and coarse through the thin of his tunic. Of course, Jon could no longer feel such sensations, as his consciousness now existed in tandem with that of Rhaegal’s—heat and power thrumming through the very framework of Jon’s awareness.

Sam’s response to Tyrion had arrived several days back and Jon had smiled as he examined the detailed scribbles spread out across the table, wondering bemusedly how one raven had managed to carry all the weight. The information had been thorough and copious, bordering at times on over detailed with regards to the long, rambling analyses of known wargs throughout history that Sam had included (containing some uncomfortable notes referencing the Warg King’s murder at the hands of House Stark).

Still, as far as Jon could tell from Sam’s jottings, there had been no one yet capable of breeching the mind of a dragon, a fact that excited Jon as much as it scared him.

However, the most useful of all Sam’s notes were the brief list of described mindset and practices necessary for warging, as recorded by a member of the Citadel many hundreds of years back, after spending some time north of the Wall. The man had travelled for a time with a wildling, named Svend, who shared the mind of a shadowcat, documenting the way in which the warg had explained the act and its sensations.

Since receiving the instructions, Jon had read them many a time, trying best he could to understand their nuance and follow their guidance. In the first two days following, Jon had simply sat with Rhaegal in the fighting pits, keeping the dragon company as he tried to relax his breathing and breech the beast’s mind. But after hours of frustrated silence and several bouts of anxious pacing, Jon’s efforts had proved to no avail, and those afternoons, Jon would return to the Pyramid discouraged and angry. Tyrion had chided Jon gently one evening, reminding him of Sam’s notes, which clearly stressed the importance of a calm mind when warging. Jon had nodded wordlessly, determined to try again, and feeling once more like the young man he had been under Ser Rodrik’s supervision—cheeks flushed, scowling at Theon, as he pushed himself from the dirt time and time again.

And then yesterday it had happened, ever so briefly. Jon had sat to Rhaegal’s side, calming his breathing and focusing his mind, relaxed in his pursuits. Closing his eyes, he paired his breaths with the weighty rise and fall of the great dragon’s belly, picturing the way the scales might expand and ripple. And abruptly, without much warning, he’d slipped from his body almost effortlessly, melding into Rhaegal’s mind. He could sense the dragon’s resistance at first, but after several moments, the tension broke, and Jon’s consciousness fully left his body. But the moment ended quickly, for once inside, Jon began to panic, and unsure of what to do, he had merely stumbled, far too aware of the dragon’s increasing attempts to push Jon out. Ultimately, after several stressful seconds, Jon managed to flap Rhaegal’s wings twice before barreling back into his own body with a gasp.

Then, Jon had opened his eyes to find Rhaegal staring curiously back at him. The dragon’s nostrils had flared, but its temper seemed (for the most part) unstirred, and it had even allowed Jon to stroke a hand along its scales before kicking up and flying away.

Today, it had happened even quicker. Jon flew atop Rhaegal all throughout the morning, going through the basic commands and eventually settling on the sandstone rocks scattered along the walls of the bay. Together, man and dragon sat for a time, Jon watching as Rhaegal snapped at the gulls and fished in the water. And then, when the sun was fat and heavy in the apex of the sky, Jon entered Rhaegal on the swell of a unified exhale, shifting into the dragon’s mind and pausing as he struggled to get his bearings and remain calm.

After a few long seconds, Jon managed to move with purpose, kicking off from the rocks of the harbor and gliding low over the water. He could feel the sun on his wings, the slicing cool on his claws as they trailed lines through the greens of the water. But all too soon, Jon lost control, lurching back to his body just as swiftly as he’d left it.

Jon opened his eyes with a startle then, only to see Rhaegal flying parallel to the horizon line in the distance, calling out as though wondering where his human companion had gone.

_Or mayhaps to remind Jon to keep to himself._

Jon tweaked his mouth into a soft smile and started across the rocks, arms outstretched as he battled to keep his balance. The salt sprayed at his ankles, wetting the fabric of his britches and causing the leathers of his boots to squeak and slide with his every movement. But all the same, Jon eventually made it to the harbor’s inlet, he hopped lightly forth, pulling himself up onto the dock’s rock wall with a grunt—pleased with the day’s practice.

***

**Ygritte:**

“Erina?” Jon called softly from the other side of the partition, stopping the sounds of the elderly midwife’s retreating shuffling.

“Yes, My Lord?”

Ygritte closed her legs, pulling her skirts over her knees as she roused herself from the cot. She could see Jon’s silhouette through the canvas divider, noting the way he shifted from foot to foot as he cleared his throat.

“I was wondering,” he started, raking a hand through his hair. “Well, at six moons…” He huffed an anxious breath. “Might it still be safe for a man to…? Are we still able to couple?”

Ygritte did her best to stifle the scoff erupting from the back of her throat.

Upon answering, the midwife’s tone was one of dismissive patience. “Yes, yes—no harm will come to the babe. Though… You might find that you now have better luck entering from… Well, from behind, My Lord.”

“From behind?” Jon practically choked out, sending Ygritte's laughter bubbling fully to the surface; once more reminded of just how easily scandalized her _man of the north_ was.

“Side-by-side,” Erina clarified, her voice raspy with age.

Ygritte watched the shape of Jon’s shoulders drop, though whether it was indicative of his relaxation or a sign of red-blooded disappointment, she couldn’t quite say. “Oh.” He nodded curtly.

“Will there be anything else, My Lord?”

“No, thank you,” Jon answered, turning around to fiddle with some papers resting on the table as the midwife left the chambers.

It was then that Ygritte emerged from behind the privacy sheet, smirking as she approached, and reaching out to run her hands along his back.

Jon turned, throwing his arms around Ygritte’s shoulders and wrapping her in a tight hug in one fluid motion.

“So now ye're ready to fuck me again?” she asked, slyly.

“Aye,” he answered, his voice husky as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I told ya there was nothin’ ta worry about,” Ygritte said, sliding a hand to the front of his breeches and palming the growth, which had already begun to stir.

Jon grabbed her wrist gently, halting her touches. “Ygritte… Stop—else I’ll have an uncomfortable walk to the Queen’s chambers.”

“Oh, it's best we just get rid of it then. I’ll be quick about it, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said, cupping firmly.

Jon let out a strained groan that rumbled from deep in his chest, but stepped back nonetheless. “No—I want to take our time, for when we try the—well…”

“Takin’ me from behind?” she laughed.

He looked to the ceiling sheepishly. “Well, _from_ the side,” he clarified, seeming to state the distinction as much for himself as for Ygritte’s benefit.

Ygritte pulled away. “Gods, alright,” she huffed, annoyed at his resistance, but ever stirred by his chasteness all the same. She ran her eyes up his form then, loving the way the blush bloomed deep on his cheeks. “Yer hair is gettin’ long, Jon Snow,” she said after a time.

He ran several strands through his fingers, brushing their ends along the crest of his shoulder with the motion. “Aye, I’ve been meaning to cut it.”

“Let me,” Ygritte said, pleased at the idea of doting on him for a change. For since her belly had continued to swell, Jon had only proved more insufferable in his attempts to serve her—fetching food and drink, opening doors, and offering an arm whenever he could. It’s not that Ygritte resented him for it, (in fact, in small doses, she even appreciated the gestures), but more so that she didn’t like the feeling of such helplessness—of feeling like a prisoner in her own body and of feeling like she needed Jon’s help in carrying out even the most mundane of tasks.

More often than not, his vigilant attentions would eventually result in Ygritte snapping caustically or shoving him away with a roll of her eyes. In the scheme of things, she figured fair was fair.

_He’d made her all round and wobblin’ for nine moons, and every now and then, she’d give him a good tongue-lashin’ or two in return._

“I have to meet with The Queen,” Jon reminded.

“I’ll only take a minute,” Ygritte said, guiding him gently towards the chair in the room’s center. “I’ve done this before, ya know?”

Capitulating wordlessly, Jon shrugged his tunic over his head as Ygritte searched the room for a pair of small shears. When she joined him again, she ran a hand through his curls—their texture soft and thick.

“When ya get all old and grey, this white bit’ll blend right in.” Ygritte laughed, fingering the shock of silver, which ran from the middle of his part.

“ _If_ I get old and grey.”

Ygritte’s heart dropped for a moment then, cursing herself for forgetting the persistent fortitude of Jon’s cynicism. And it wasn’t that he was trying to be a downer, she knew, more so that he simply couldn’t help the weight in which he felt the world and anticipated the future.

_And after all he had been through, who could blame him? Perhaps he was right to be so._

But Ygritte didn’t want to think about that now. “Hush, Jon Snow,” she answered huskily, snipping off an inch or two from the ends of his curls and falling silent, her stomach knotting.

No doubt noting the shift in her demeanor, Jon quickly changed the subject. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

She laughed. “No. I might take a walk… Or I might just get meself off here… ‘Cause you were too stubborn to do it just now.”

The wood of the chair creaked as Jon turned to face her, brown eyes stirring darkly with lust. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said urgently. “I promise.”

“We’ll see, Jon Snow,” Ygritte said, taking his head and maneuvering it gently forward once more.

And when she finished the haircut, Jon stood up, brushing the fallen pieces from his shoulders and reaching for his discarded tunic. “It’s not uneven?” He asked, standing tall.

“No more than that glum grin ya’ve got on yer face,” Ygritte said teasingly, taking his cheek between her thumb and forefinger, and pinching slightly before pressing a soft kiss to the surface of his skin. "Hurry back."


	65. LXV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transparently done with working on this chapter. So here it is!

**Jon:**

Jon and Rhaegal coasted to a glide midair, the morning sun caught tight and twisting in the dark of Jon’s eyes as they adjusted once more to the light. He threw an arm across his brow, panting slightly from exertion, the fingers of his other hand gripping tightly to the saddle’s bronze handhold.

The dragon rumbled beneath him, shaking its head with a dismissive rattle, as though attempting to fully remove Jon from its consciousness.

For his part, Jon’s chest was still heaving as he settled back into the comforts of his own body—the gray of his tunic damp and darkened beneath his arms, and the tendons in his knees buzzing and taut beneath the leather straps, which secured Jon firmly in his place. These latest additions to the saddle’s design ensured Jon remain firmly in his seat whenever warging, and had been further accompanied by the inclusion of an elevated cantle and concomitant belt. In position, this supporting band would wrap tightly around Jon’s waist, helping to maintain his vertical posture even when his consciousness was elsewhere.

Another week had passed in Meereen and Jon’s warging practice had shown steady improvement. For, each time Jon entered Rhaegal anew, he felt himself gaining more and more control. To Jon’s excitement, the episodes were also more or less increasing in length, and once inside the dragon’s mind, Jon’s degree of intention (and the dragon’s resulting movement) had been growing as well. Though still, it felt different than it had with Ghost, on those nights when Jon had shared his wolf’s skin—Ghost’s consciousness never demanding much dominion of presence, and instead seeming to slip passively and patiently to the sidelines, allowing Jon complete authority.

But with the dragon, Jon wasn’t learning to control the beast, but instead to work _with_ it.

Whenever Jon would enter Rhaegal’s body, the dragon’s presence would always remain heatedly alongside Jon’s awareness, as though reminding Jon that this mental invasion was merely momentarily permitted, but never fully taken. In these moments, Rhaegal’s vitality would vibrate all around Jon, clenching and twisting with a strength that had Jon pushing back with the heat of his own force, lest he be pushed out all together.

In this way, it would be more accurate to describe warging with the dragon as two consciousnesses rubbing powerfully together, rather than the dragon’s simply overtaken. Here, man and dragon’s energies would thrum furiously against one another for a time, generating friction like two flint stones stroked in tandem to yield a spark. On his end, Jon approached this reality with appropriately nervous respect, hesitant himself to embrace the full heat of the dragon’s adjacently humming energy, and wary of the unknown powers potentially unleashed by this building union of spirits.

Yet, regardless of his reluctance, when Jon would return again into his own body, he’d find himself more energized than before, as though something had awakened inside him—something brewing and angry. His face was oft flushed, his skin feeling decidedly too tight, as if stretched too thinly over a landscape of restlessly twitching muscles. It furthermore wasn't uncommon for Jon to have an erection after the warging, something he tolerated with the same perplexed resignation he had during puberty, when his penis had grown hard at times he thought unusual or unexpected (or worse, inappropriate). Nevertheless, the consistency of his body's reaction surprised him, and he could only guess that warging with a dragon stirred up a lust and power within, that his flesh simply couldn't help but respond to.

All the same, when they eventually landed this afternoon, Jon steadied himself and leaned over, unbuckling the straps synched around his thighs and waist. Then, balancing his weight in one stirrup, he moved to dismount, sliding down the sloping belly of the green dragon; Rhaegal’s scales rough against Jon's back as he dropped slickly to his feet.

Once his boots were firmly on the ground, Jon exhaled deeply, raking his fingers through his mess of black hair as he tried to still his breathing. And after several seconds, Jon gave Rhaegal a small, appreciative pat before turning on heel and walking towards the humble pavilion at the fighting pit’s center, smirking a wordless greeting to Tyrion as he ducked beneath the shelter’s shade.

The Lannister looked up from his book. “And how was your ride, Jon Snow?”

“It went well,” Jon nodded slowly, his brows tugging together as though the simple admission required some depth of thought. He hesitated before speaking again. “It’s getting easier.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Jon cupped his hands, dipping them into the basin of water standing by the cover’s edge, and bent down to splash the heat from his face. The liquid was cool and calming as it rolled down his cheeks, catching in the thick of his lashes and dripping down the blunt of his nose. From a distance, he could hear Ygritte’s laughter, raspy and strong, echoing as she cleaved her wooden practice sword in Daario’s direction.

_They’d been at it all morning._

Jon smiled to himself as he straightened up; gathering his curls in a fist and tying them back with a thin leather strip. After clearing his throat, he adjusted his fattened cock with a deft roll of his hand, the motion as quick as it was subtle—fingers flickering across the strained fabric of his britches as he grunted softly.

_Gods, It just keeps going._

He went to seat himself next to Tyrion then, but halted when the ground beneath his boots began to shake. Accordingly, Jon snapped to attention, only to see Rhaegal barreling towards the direction of Ygritte’s spar.

The dragon’s claws thundered across the sand, its nails digging and scraping through the sediment as it propelled itself forward. Rhaegal’s scales rippled and shined in the afternoon light—his muscles pulsing and shaking with the force of each surging footfall.

Jon’s breath hitched, his tongue dry as he stumbled several steps forward. For her part, Ygritte was scrambling backwards, Daario having grabbed her roughly by the arm as the pair moved to escape the dragon’s rushing approach.

Blood racing, Jon shut his eyes, trying desperately to enter Rhaegal’s mind—to stop the dragon’s rapid movement towards the woman who carried his child. But Jon’s efforts were to no avail, his attempts faltering like the failed beginnings of a fire; its brief flame sputtering, but never quite catching hold. For in the moment, Jon was panicked—more man than dragon—his adrenaline blinding to the point of preventing the control he so desperately sought.

Grappling furiously to gain hold, his consciousness spat and slipped with the grip of warging. Though by the time several long, fruitless seconds had ticked by, Jon was through with trying.

He opened his eyes, fearful and dark as they fluttered to focus on Rhaegal. “Daor!” Jon shouted then, his voice hoarse and commanding—chest heaving as he yelled the direction.

In response, Rhaegal twisted his head back, halting his movement and eyeing Jon with a stony discontent he’d not yet seen from the beast. If Jon didn’t know any better, he might classify the look as one of dismissive annoyance—the dragon’s body language almost demanding an eye-roll. And if a dragon could sigh, Rhaegal surely would have done so—as though to make an impatiently glaring display of his placid intentions.

Jon stilled, swallowing heavily and running his tongue along the break of his plump, dry lips.

He watched then as the dragon closed the final gap between itself and Ygritte, crooning lowly before extending its long, thick neck in her direction.

Ygritte’s jaw was set firmly; hair stirring against the pale of her skin as Rhaegal’s hot breath agitated its fine, auburn tendrils. Daario was stood just behind her, his heels firmly planted and the jump in his throat apparent even from a distance. Jon found himself both relieved and anxious to see the sellsword’s hand clenched tightly around the golden, varnished handle of his dagger.

But in that moment, some depth of sensation told Jon that Daario wouldn’t need it, the unspoken bond between Jon and Rhaegal serving as some distant comfort.

Rhaegal lowered his massive head then, dropping his snout to the sphere of Ygritte’s belly, round and tight beneath the fabric of her threadbare tunic. It was reminiscent of the way the dragon had first greeted Jon, sniffing thickly at his core as though to test Jon’s scent for any hint that he might be undeserving.

The dragon stayed in place for awhile, tendons taut as its muzzle circled Ygritte’s stomach, brushing once or twice against the heavy swells of her breasts, which rested full along her belly’s slope.

Jon could hear his heart hammering in his ears, as though running round and round the rim of his skull. His fists were clenched at his sides, his next breath caught unspent in the base of his throat.

But soon enough, the dragon shifted, offering a final, rolling exhale before turning around. Rhaegal lumbered away from Ygritte then, dragging his head towards Jon and glaring, as though retroactively irritated at having to affirm the passivity of his actions, before kicking off and taking flight.

Jon let out a long exhale—the shaking surge of air warm and strong as it moved through his lips. He came to quickly afterwards, springing forth and jogging swiftly to Ygritte’s side.

“You’re alright?” he asked when within earshot, slowing the momentum of his last few steps.

She nodded.

To anyone else, Ygritte would look a picture of collectedness—her brow stern and her gaze cool and light. But Jon could see the slight tremble in her lips, the way her ears had flushed, their caps pink where they poked out amongst her braids. He reached out gently then, meeting her eyes, heavy in their relief, as his thumb slid to caress the thin line of her bicep.

A small huff of air escaped Ygritte’s mouth before she spoke. “I think he can smell ya in here,” she smirked, rubbing a hand down the arch of her stomach.

Jon looked down, placing his own hand quietly atop hers, the veins on its back raised clearly against the soft of Jon’s surrounding flesh—coursing still with the blood of his flight. “Aye, that may be so,” he answered softly, his voice scratched with uncoiling ease. He noticed then how the dragon’s breath had moistened Ygritte’s shirt, the fabric now clinging and wet in all the right places. His cock twitched to life once more, and Jon sighed, ceding himself to the perpetual desire he seemed so gripped by these days—though whether this recent robustness was due to the warging or the way Ygritte’s breasts had plumped with the pregnancy, Jon couldn’t quite be certain.

_Seven hells, man. Calm yourself._

Stifling his body’s heat, Jon simply leaned forth, squeezing Ygritte’s upper-arm as he pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head.

Daario cut in then, his brows curved atop eyes shining with amused relief. “Well, should we get back to it… Before Viserion over there decides he’d also like a whiff of your belly?”

“Aye, Daario Naharis.” Ygritte turned to Jon, smiling sarcastically as she offered an explanation. “The sellsword likes ta keep his skills sharp by fighting pregnant women.”

“What can I say? I never was much for honor,” Daario said, turning up his palms to accompany the wry grin slanting across the bottom half of his face.

Jon grinned gently in answer, biting down on the thick of his bottom lip and keeping his reservations firmly behind locked teeth.

_Was it wise for a pregnant woman to be training so?_

But Jon knew better than to question Ygritte on this, lest he insight the scathe of her verbal castigation.

_She would know better than he anyway—after all, it was her body._

And so, as Daario and Ygritte moved in step, Jon parted ways, heading back towards the partition across the pit, the full force of parasympathy softening his body following Rhaegal’s unsettling behavior—his knees still slightly buzzing.

With a grunt, Jon lowered himself into the seat by Tyrion’s side, rolling up his sleeves as he dropped, their length just long enough to have cuffed uncomfortably around the circle of his palms.

Tyrion shut his book, mouth twitching as he chose his words. “It never is a dull day with the dragons.”

Jon’s lips folded into a shallow smile as he chuffed a humorless laugh. “Aye.”

They settled into a comfortable silence then, Tyrion returning to his readings and Jon relaxing to observe the spar across the sand.

Ygritte looked strong from afar; her footwork considerably better than it had been in their days back in Winterfell. But there was something distinctly unnerving about watching her jab and dodge, weapon in hand and belly swollen, reminding Jon of the harsh realities of the world the babe would be born to.

Nonetheless, Jon was proud as he watched, smiling to himself whenever Ygritte landed a hit (rare though it still was). Luckily, Jon thought, Daario seemed to understand that letting Ygritte win would only be met with resentment.

As the afternoon stretched on, Jon felt himself growing progressively lighter in spirit, the sun’s warmth unobtrusive, almost gentle, beneath the shade. He shut his eyes, listening to the buzzing of locusts, the clack of wooden swords, and the padded turn of Lord Tyrion’s fingers over parchment.

It felt good, this quiet—this brief relief from the intensity of his days. It was rare for Jon to take a moment to himself. And eventually, the cadence of Jon’s breathing mellowed, and just as he was teetering on the edge of sleep, a voice pulled him back again, like a fist plunging beneath the surface of a lake and tugging at his chest.

“Care to have a go, Dragon Prince?”

Jon opened his eyes to see Daario standing over him, Ygritte just behind, her face red and blotchy. She angled a sling of water to her mouth then, throwing back her head and taking several long, dragging gulps.

“She says you’re very good,” Daario said, his voice lofty in its challenge.

Ygritte stepped beneath the cover, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder as she collapsed in the seat beside him. “He is,” she reiterated, voice hoarse with the heat of her exhale. From this close, Jon could smell the sweet of her skin, and he couldn’t help but relish in the sight of her, dragging his eyes across the flush of all her freckles. His head felt heavy from dozing, and he felt warm all over.

“So—what do you say?” the sellsword pressed, waiting for an answer. “I’ll go easy on you.”

Collecting himself, Jon reluctantly drew his eyes away from Ygritte. He cocked his head towards Daario then, slanting a cavalier grin. “You won’t have to,” Jon promised, competition stirring as he roused himself— bones clicking with resistance as he moved to a stand.

Daario laughed, clapping Jon on the back in a gesture of amicability. “Spoken like a true fighter.”

Jon had yet to spar with the sellsword, though he’d managed to keep up with his exercise in other ways—training whenever he could, mostly hacking away at practice dummies or politely soliciting some tight-lipped member of the Unsullied to serve as his partner.

Jon walked to the weapons rack, pulling out a short sword and tossing it from hand to hand, spinning the weapon idly as he tested its balance.

_It would do._

Pacing several steps from their audience, the men squared off then, taking their stances and sizing up their opponents. They circled each other slowly at first, Jon careful—one sidestepping footfall quickly replacing another.

Jon knew this game—wait until your adversary strikes and answer accordingly. Jon’s characteristic reservation and disposition for quiet observation had solidified this approach long ago, back in Winterfell’s training yard—Robb and Theon almost always making the first move.

But when a full minute had passed and neither man had made a move, Daario halted his motions, raising a brow as he spoke with rather charmed irritation. “Are we to dance around each other all day?”

“No.” Jon smiled. “Just thought I’d let you do the honors,” he answered—his politeness sardonic.

Daario rolled his eyes but capitulated regardless. “Very well,” he answered, just before cleaving his sword through the air in Jon’s direction. The movement was quick, but Jon was ready for it, jerking back just out of reach, his motion tight and controlled.

The sellsword smiled, pausing not a second more before lashing out again. And this time, Jon met the blow with his sword, knocking Daario’s weapon to the side and rendering the attack void. Jon bounced back then, widening his boots just beyond the span of his shoulders, aligning his body once more.

And adrenaline spiking, Jon lunged forth, his sword cutting through the air accompanied by the scrape of a hoarse shout. Daario met this charge with relative ease, as Jon had intended. But the defense left Daario’s side exposed, and so Jon quickly shifted, switching to attack from below, using his size to his advantage and knocking his shoulder into Daario’s, sending the sellsword reeling back a step or two.

Daario shook his hair from his eyes before speaking, offering up a compliment as though the words presented him a minor burden. “She’s right you know—you are very good. Who taught you how to fight?”

“Winterfell’s Master-of-Arms,” Jon answered, chest rising slightly with his breaths, heated by exertion. “Ser Rodrik.”

Nodding, Daario huffed a brief laugh as his shoulders slumped. “Of course.” His tone didn’t seem resentful, if anything it bordered on disappointed condescension. And a slight blush rose in Jon’s skin then, humbled by the reminder of how fortunate he had been.

_Luckier than most._

Jon supposed the slave pits must have been a different kind of education all together.

Noting this slight fall in Jon’s boldness, Daario jumped at the opportunity, throwing back his arms and hacking at Jon from above.

The sellsword had height on Jon to be true, but Jon used his body well, ducking to avoid the swipe of Daario’s sword before throwing an elbow into its oncoming hilt, effectively knocking off the sellsword’s balance. And then, riding the wave of his own momentum, Jon twisted, springing his body upwards and thrusting the tip of his weapon to the base of Daario’s throat—his effort accompanied by the roll of a low grunt grinding deep within his chest.

Settling, Jon smirked, panting as he held Daario’s gaze, the man obviously taken aback by the quickness of his defeat. But after a moment, Daario stepped back, raising his hands in the air and looking to Jon with reserved reverence. “Again?” he asked.

And so they continued for about an hour, both men fairly evenly matched, all things considered. Daario had proved himself to be a lean and clever (if not a bit scrappy) fighter. But Jon was equally skilled, and as the afternoon went on, he held his own, adopting and adapting to the required wiliness of the spar.

Though neither man had been seriously injured, Daario now sported a bruise bursting on the swell of his right cheek, and Jon had suffered a rather precise hit to one of his kidneys, which had had him crying out—his body doubling over for just a moment as he blinked back spots of pain. And as time wore on, their efforts had only grown increasingly rougher.

It would get like this back in Winterfell, particularly when Jon was facing off against Theon. Back then; it would not have been uncommon for an angry thumb to jab itself into an eye, or a knee to find its way into a groin. And while Jon was often the initial recipient of such personal blows, his pained rage had always gotten the better of him, and Theon would oft suffer the consequences with equal (if not twice the) fervor. In the end, Ser Rodrik would dismiss both boys with angry words— _this isn’t how a lord fights_ —and Jon would once again find himself wishing he could disappear into the castle walls, his honor shamed and his body sore. Worse still, Robb never engaged in such tempered displays; to Jon’s mind, only further darkening the cast of the heir’s perfect shadow.

_But those days were long past._

And now, in Meereen, both Jon and Daario were thoroughly worn out. And despite the longevity of their multiple spars, by all accounts; no clear winner had yet been determined—the number of scuffles won ultimately averaging out between the two, and the air of camaraderie remaining solid, despite their fighting’s rising crudity.

“Once more, Jon Snow?” The sellsword panted.

“Aye, one more.” Jon nodded, catching his breath.

Daario tensed then, stiffening his body to prepare for one final lunge. But when the lunge came, Jon was ready.

Jon met the first blow with easy grace, sword grating against sword before Daario pulled back, attacking all too quickly from the other side. But Jon moved accordingly, arms crossing his chest to block the next swing. Daario’s alternating attacks carried on like this for a time, one swift melee after another—Jon on the defense.

But a particularly firm strike soon had Jon digging his back heel into the sand—muscles straining as he pushed the length of his sword against the press of Daario’s. The blades were locked heatedly—splintered and scraping along one another as both men struggled to hold the contact. Suddenly though, the swellsword threw his weight, pulsing his fists upward, and causing the swell of a cross guard to slam into Jon’s bottom lip, which sent him reeling from the force.

Blood bursting in his mouth, Jon stumbled several steps backwards, somehow managing to keep his balance. And with the warm taste of salt and iron gushing across his tongue, Jon righted himself. He sucked his teeth, spitting bitterly before surging forward once more—the instinct of his newfound fire serving him well.

Grunting, Jon kicked off, leaving the ground ever so briefly as he moved to strike a solid hit to Daario’s collar. But Daario spun at the last minute, stopping the swipe and then using his free arm to pull tightly around Jon’s middle—clutching at his tunic and effectively pinning Jon’s body against his.

The blades of Jon’s struggling shoulders dug sharply into Daario’s chest, but the man kept his grip from behind, twisting his sword so as to deliver the spar’s final blow—seeking to rest his blade across the pale of Jon’s exposed throat where Jon’s tendons snapped and pulsed with the clutch of his exertion.

But just as Daario’s wrist moved to position, Jon smashed a fist firmly into the sellsword’s gut, causing Daario’s hold to falter. And before the man could regain control, Jon had slipped out from beneath the softening crush of the sellsword's arms.

Breathing heavily, Jon curled to face the sellsword yet again, just in time to meet the heat of Daario’s boot, catching him on the inside of his thigh. Jon's knees buckled resultantly, his body jerking to the ground.

Upon landing, Jon rolled to a sit, head pounding and lip pulsing as he scooted back, snatching at fistfuls of sand and scrambling to avoid Daario’s looming approach.

_It's over._

And with Daario closing in, in one final, last-ditch effort, Jon swept his leg wide—the toe of his boot hooking around Daario’s ankle and sending the man tumbling to the ground beside him.

Opportunity presented, Jon wasted no time then, barreling to a pounce—pinning Daario’s sword-hand to the ground with the slam of both knees as he brought his sword to a rest at the trough of Daario’s sweating throat.

And then, body collapsing on the crash of an exhausted exhale, Daario closed his eyes. “I yield,” he said.

The second the words had left the sellsword’s lips, Jon moved off, falling to his back on the ground—heart beating in his body, and beard thick with blood and sand. Jon shut his eyes as well, writhing gently this way and that, as though taking stock of all his bruises. From afar, he could hear Ygritte—her boisterous cheering accompanied by several loud claps, and muscles aching, Jon let out a relieved groan before huffing a dry laugh—one that only whispered, fermenting deep within the tunnels of his nostrils.

After a minute went by, Jon heard a rustling to his side, and cracked an eye open to see Daario standing above him, large hand outstretched—the man’s silhouette blocking out the bright of the sun. “It always is the smaller man,” Daario drawled with amusement—his words making little sense to Jon. But before Jon could process the admission further, Daario’s face caved into a half wince, taking in the sight of the man sprawled before him. “Sorry about the lip.”

Jon took hold of Daario’s hand in answer, letting himself be hoisted up from the sand—the momentum bringing Jon close enough to see the beads of sweat collecting on Daario’s cheeks, just across the smear of a purpling bruise. “Sorry about your face,” Jon smirked.

Laughing softly, the sellsword raised his head, his body language almost at odds with the humility of his next words. “I’m just glad our Queen wasn’t here to watch me fall…” He paused then, expression serious. “Not many men have bested me, Jon Snow.”

Jon shrugged, hesitant (as always) to relish in his own victory. “I got lucky.”

“You’re too modest,” Daario said, slapping a warm palm to the center of Jon’s back. “Either way—I hope you give me the chance to redeem myself.”

Jon looked up, brown eyes meeting cool blue. “Aye, I should like that.”

The two men headed back to the partition then, Jon moving with a quiet arrogance—beginning, gradually, to bask in the glow of his win. But as they neared, he slowed his steps, pausing as Ygritte sauntered to meet him, her hips swaying.

Jon swallowed—throat tight with anticipation and reserved pride—as Ygritte wrapped her arms around him in greeting. “Were ya tryin’ to impress me, Jon Snow?” She smiled, lips pink and eyes warm.

Jon grinned. “Aye, I might’ve been… Did it work?”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth then, swaying back and forth as though deciding on an answer. “Aye, just a bit,” she said finally, her voice light.

“Good,” he rumbled.

“Oh, but remember, it were me who wore him out for ya,” she challenged.

And smiling, Jon put his hands gently to her face, dipping his head and pressing a soft kiss to her mouth.

“Jon!” Tyrion’s voice broke the spell, and Jon stepped back from Ygritte, only to find the dwarfed man strolling swiftly towards them—a thin roll of parchment clutched tightly in his fist—his steps curt and urgent.

He handed the letter to Jon. “A raven came.” Tyrion’s voice was low as he spoke, the next words spoken with decided emphasis. “A _white_ raven.”

Jon nodded, stomach dropping as he broke the Stark seal, unfurling the note with hastened fingers.

_Jon,_  
_The Walkers are approaching the castle. The fog is settling and the Wall’s magic won’t hold for much longer._  
_It is time. Come home, Jon._  
_Signed,_  
_Brandon Stark_

Jon’s head felt heavy, all his teeth suddenly too loose in his mouth. And with the cool acceptance of reality closing in, he cast his gaze to the sky, looking down only as he felt Ygritte stir beside him, her fingers dancing lightly across the fabric of his tunic so as to get his attention.

“What’s it say?”

Jon took a deep breath.

_Ned Stark always promised, didn’t he? ___

__He turned to face her then, voice steady as he spoke the words he’d been waiting to say since long before he could remember. “Winter is here.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow: beautiful warg prince/somber pal/boner champ always toeing the line between self-respecting pride and over the top modesty.
> 
> Here’s hoping the spar wasn’t too jumbled.
> 
> Some big goodbyes coming up.


End file.
